New World Order
by datbenik513
Summary: People are disappearing. People with money, people with power, people whose decisions can shatter the world. The authorities are helpless. Due to a coincidence, Harry Potter is drawn into the vortex of events.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: One

The setting sun swept over the Big Apple, painting the buildings on its way into a bright, golden gloom. With its hands it caressed the water turning it into liquid gold, lazily flowing towards the ocean just past the Verrazano-Narrows bridge. The streets were still packed, and the sun waved goodbye to the hustle and bustle of the metropolis on its way to restart its eternal cycle after getting a well-deserved rest. It smiled apologetically to the cabbie, a Russian immigrant, who has been blinded by one of its stray lights and now was cursing out of breath in both Russian and broken English as he was searching for his sunglasses in the glove box. Then, as the sun went on on its heavenly path, relentlessly driven out by the night, shadows became longer and paler, until they finally disappeared.

The man – just one man on the streets, at this point – took off his sunglasses and raised his face to meet the last rays of the day. Closing his eyes, he welcomed the warmth emanating from the celestial orb, known in scientific terms as "infrared radiation". For him, it was merely warmth, a gentle caress of Mother Nature, and it pleased him as no one other. He certainly enjoyed it after the freezing cold winter he'd just left behind, the eight-months long winter up north in Scandinavia.

His eyes roamed on the buildings at the expensive residential area on the waterfront, searching for the one window he'd come for. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of identical or almost identical windows, as far as he could see, but his instincts, aided by a expertly performed Supersensory Charm, were drawn to a specific building, where his target was hidden. During his long life he'd learned how to blend in, how to stay out of attention. He let a small smile form on his face as he remembered the ancient proverb: "When in Rome, do as the Romans do." He nodded. This was one of his basic principles which had saved his life more than once during his almost 80 years of life.

He was born somewhere at the end of the twenties, just after the Earth had been shattered by the first of the modern wars and a chain of bloody revolutions, then clean-swept by a pandemic flu taking away fifty millions of lives in mere months, more than the Big Burn in its four years. Fifty million Muggles, fifty million useless, infectious rats, he corrected himself. On contrary to his age, he looked not more than sixty, slightly above six foot, broad-shouldered, with a markant face, heavy chin and two youthful, piercing, steel blue eyes. His hair – still retaining his original blondness – was cut short in a somewhat old-fashioned way.

The man folded his sunglasses and replaced them in one of his internal pockets of the long, black overcoat he was wearing. Putting his hands in his pockets, he set off in a lazy tempo towards the building he'd been watching for the past fifteen minutes, whistling a song, his eyes still transfixed on _that_ window.

Suddenly, he felt someone bumping into him and he almost lost his balance.

"**Dra åt helvete!**(1)"he swore instinctively, but the other man already flashed an apologetic smile, so he swallowed the continuation. He looked into the eyes of the other man with a piercing gaze until he turned and rushed away from him, shaking his head, as he was trying to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling from the contact with the steel blue eyes.

Muggle scientists would have called it "hypnose"; in his world it was referred to either as "one-way ticket to Azkaban" or "Imperius Curse", depending on the current circumstances. He knew only of one single person who was capable of performing this curse wandlessly and non-verbally, his own father, killed nine years ago. In his younger years, such an obvious demonstration of his imminent mental powers would have caused him enormous pleasure. As years went by, however, he learned his _real_ place in the world, he understood the _real_ powers he was holding, and his mind games with these men and women, children and elderly, surrounding him as cockroaches, no longer brought him the level of satisfaction he was craving for. He rose on the next level and had other, more important things to attend to.

_Mullah (2) _Kareem Abdoul ibn Kareem was devoid of all cliches the Western world loved to attribute to the Islam. He was a peace-loving, very friendly man, openly calling for dialogue and cooperation of all churches of the world for a better future, to stop wars, tearing the Middle-East apart, causing countless victims, refugees, tears and grief, leading to even more hostility between nations. He met Jewish, Buddhist, Catholic church leaders, received a private audience from the Pope, visited the Dalai Lama in Paris and was a frequent and welcome guest – partly because of his erudite nature – at most major TV stations of the world.

Barely fifty years of age, _Mullah_ Kareem has been elected as Secretary General of the Islamic Society of North America, the biggest Islamic organization of the USA, much to the distaste of the more old-fashioned, more radical, more traditional clergy leaders, who'd rather preferred a more hardcore leader. Barely a month ago the police arrested a man who'd been hired "to rid the Islamic world from this shame". Yet, _Mullah_ Kareem continued to work for what he'd believed in and he was gaining followers by the thousands.

It was shortly after 8 pm when the speakers of his computer came alive and the digital _muezzin (3)_ started to chant, calling all faithful Moslims of the world to the _salat am-maghrib_, the prayer at sunset. He rose from his desk where he was consulting the evening newspapers. Having taken off his sandals, he performed the ritual washing of his feet, rolled out his expensive, 4-by-3-feet, handmade carpet, and, heading towards _al-__Ka'bah_ (4) sank into a comfortable meditation pose and closed his eyes. This carpet was one of his greatest treasures, a gift from no less than His Majesty Hussein, King of Jordan for his fiftieth birthday, made by the very best manufactury ever existed. It was very well worth its weight in gold, but for _Mullah_ Kareem, this gift had a deeper, more symbolic value, a token of appreciation of his efforts from the most progressive Head of State in the Islamic world.

An ethereal smile came upon his face as he recited the _Sura al-Fatiha_, the Pillar of Belief.

"_In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful: _ _All Praises to Allah, Lord of the Universe. _ _The Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. _ _Sovereign of the Day of Judgment. _ _You alone we worship, and You alone we ask for help _ _Guide us to the straight path; _ _The path of those on whom _ _You have bestowed your grace, _ _not of those who have earned Your anger, _ _nor of those who go astray."_

When he ended the prayer, he remained in his meditation pose, just to clear his mind and think. This was his favourite time of the day, and this _Sura_ (5) was his favourite quotation from the _Qu'ran (6)_, a piece of text he had found – with minor changes but incorporating the same ideas – both in the Bible and in the _Torah (7)_. Together with the _Sura _

_"We believe in what was revealed to us and in what was revealed to you, _ _and our god and your god is one and the same; _ _to Him we are submitters." _

it formed the pillar of his life philosophy, the basic principle behind all his work: the cooperation of churches into one common future.

Slowly rising from the carpet, he gently rolled it up again. He stretched his legs and went into the kitchen to make a coffee and grab some _baklava_ (8) from the fridge. With the cup in one hand and a small tray loaded with sweets in the other, he walked up to the huge window, occupying the whole wall of his study, overlooking the magnificent view at the waterfront. "There is always something magnificent in the dying of a day and the birth of a new one," he thought while he enjoyed the last golden rays of the sun and a healthy bite of the crisp _baklava, _graciously enriched with sweet syrup.

A loud knock stopped his train of thoughts. "It must be the housekeeper," he concluded. She came four times a week, normally between _asr_ (9) and _maghrib (10)_, which means today she was really late. With an exasperate sight he placed the cup and the tray on his desk, and went up to the door to open it.

On the corridor stood a man, with blond hair and piercing, steel-blue eyes. "He must be in his sixties," Kareem concluded.

The stranger spoke in perfect Arabic, with the slightest hint of an accent Kareem could not place.

"_Aassalaamu Aleikum, Mullah Kareem! (11)"_

"_Wa-Aleikum Aassalaam!_ _(12)"_ Kareem answered the greeting the same formal way and invited the stranger inside. This was usual practice; he'd been receiving visitors all the day round, mostly completely unknown people.

The stranger acknowledged the gesture with a curt node and stepped inside. With several quick looks he memorized the internals of the study and smirked. _"This would be easier than I've thought. No security, no cameras, nothing. But then, what chance would any Muggle security stand against me?"_

Kareem closed the door behind the guest. "What can I do for you, Sir?" he inquired in his usual, polite tone. The steel-blue eyes pierced him again and Kareem got an uneasy feeling that he shouldn't at all have let this man into his apartment, which was justified to full extent when the man started to speak.

"Go to Hell!", Swedish

a man, educated in Islamic theology and sacred law, Arabic

the person who leads the call to the five daily prayers, Arabic

the most sacred site in Islam, Arabic

"verse", Arabic

The central religious text of Islam, Arabic

The founding religious document of Judaism, Hebrew

sort of sweets, common in the Middle East

"afternoon", Arabic

"sunset", Arabic

"Good day, Mullah Kareem!", lit. "Peace be with you!", Arabic

Formal response, lit. "Peace be with you as well!", Arabic


	2. Chapter 2

Special Agent Lee woke with a very bad headache. It felt as if a dozen elephants were dancing sarabande on her forehead. Her ears were pulsating, her bloodshot eyes filled with tears of pain. No matter what she tried it wouldn't go away and she wondered if the headache had anything to do with the twelve tequila shots she'd had last night at Arlene's Grocery at the birthday party of her sister, Brittany. Having had three coffees with her breakfast, three dark, strong Italian espressos without sugar, the pain succumbed to a manageable level and she gave herself the green light to drive to the office. Even being a non-religious person, she silently prayed during the half-hour long drive to Headquarters so that she wouldn't accidentally kill anyone on the road. Luckily, the highway was not that crowded and she had a rather relaxing drive as she put on her favourite Lacuna Coil CD and sang together with Cristina in her pleasant voice.

When she arrived, she parked her yellow Mustang Convertible at her private spot under the building and went up two storeys with the elevator to Personnel Entry. Having cleared the daily security routine, she clocked in and took the stairs towards her office on the fourth floor. She had a slight form of claustrophobia, which she – until now – had managed to keep a well-preserved secret during the yearly compulsory medical and psychological checkups. When asked about her strange preference, she always joked about extra pounds gained during office hours, which normally did the trick, no further questions asked.

Having graduated from the Academy two years ago, Special Agent Lee and her two best friends, Jackie and Christie were fortunate enough to have been assigned to the same Squad Theta where they were immediately baptised Siamese Triplet for being completely inseparable. They were the perfect team together: Christie, the strategist, Jackie, the techie and Lee, l'agent perfect, with or without a weapon. Nevertheless, they'd spent these two years at boring office work, without ever having a real case assigned to them, and by now Lee was seriously asking herself the question if this was what she wanted to make of her life.

With an exasperated sigh, the tiny agent threw her heavy attache-case on the floor. Frantically rummaging in her desk drawer, she fished out a bar of her favourite Nestle chocolate from there, took a delighted bite from the sweets and rushed for the pantry for another refill of coffee, what would be her fourth one in something less than an hour.

"Hey, Hobbit!" Christie lovingly brushed the hair of her best friend. The Irish redhead was a little less than a foot longer than Lee. Lee only smiled at her antics.

"Hey Chris, did you manage to get some sleep last night?" she inquited with a playful spark in her hazel eyes.

"Honestly Hobbit, never slept that well in my entire life. Next time I have insomnia, I'll make sure to have a bottle of tequila handy," she admitted, while consulting her pocket mirror and after careful consideration applying her favourite lipstick. "Oh no, not him again..."

Turning away from the coffee-maker, Lee followed Christie's eyes. She caught sight of Brian, Tactical Commander, entering the office, followed by an out-of-breath Bernie, their Squad leader. Brian was a very good-looking, handsome gentleman in his mid-fifties, somewhat resembling a mixture of George Clooney and Richard Gere, an experienced, cunning old fox almost all female agents – and secretly some male ones as well – were hopelessly in love with. He had one irritating habit. He was a movie freak and gave everybody in the department nicknames derived from the names of his favourite actors and actresses. The very first day he baptized Christie Uma Thurman, making her instantly hate him. Overhearing Lee's nickname he decided it really fit her, but the very first time he tried to call her Hobbit Lee very clearly and maybe slightly too loudly explained to him that it was the privilege of her best friends only. Later having apologized to the Commander, they called it a truce and settled for Lana – after Lana Turner, of course – rhyming with her given names, Lee Anne.

Without even taking note of them, Brian headed straight to the meeting room they were using for their usual morning briefings.

"Triplet, with me. Now!" barked Bernie, a usually calm, somewhat restrained former Marine. The girls, by now joined by Jackie, cast a curious glance at him, but said nothing. By now they'd learned to obey direct orders immediately, so they collected their scrapbooks and PDA's and rushed to the meeting room. The other agents curiously followed them with their eyes through the door, but the blinds were closed almost immediately and a hushed, but distinctively audible buzz signed that the meeting room had been electronically scrambled.

"Triplet, thanks for joining," started Brian without too much ado, no trace of irony in his voice. Piercing the girls with his sea-blue eyes, he nodded at them understandingly.

"Eight? Nine?" he inquired, barely suppressing a smile. Lee flushed red. Barely audibly, she muttered a word. Bernie shook his head in disbelief.

"Special Agent Lee, could you please repeat it again, for all of us?" he requested in a formal tone. Lee flushed deeper.

"Actually, Sir, it was twelve shots," she repeated, this time louder.

"That's a good girl!" laughed the Commander. "Am I safe to assume you've won the contest?"

"No, Sir," admitted Lee, lowering her head, "actually the tequila won. I've never had such a horrible headache in my entire life before as this morning."

The Commander looked at the girl with a trace of sympathy in his glance. "Are you able to attend?" he inquired; he'd never have admitted it in public but despite that confrontation of theirs he'd grown fond of the tiny girl.

"Yes, Commander, thanks for asking," answered Lee in a formal tone, trying to remain emotionless, but silently she had to admit that she was somewhat flattered by the sudden attention of the Commander.

"Ok, Triplet, here's the deal. This is your first real assignment," started Bernie, taking the lead, "your 'baptism of fire'. There were two disappearances within 24 hours, one in NY, one in Washington, and the Bureau is taking over the investigation from the respective police departments."

"Sir, may I ask who were the people who disappeared?" inquired Jackie, who was the most observant from the girls. She already started taking notes on her PDA; she was all in mission mode.

"Yes, you may, agent Slocombe." Brian opened his briefcase and produced five identical files bearing the infamous red "Top Secret" logo on the cover, giving each of them a copy, keeping the fifth one for himself. Lee gasped loudly and stopped her mouth with her hand. This was it, the moment she'd been waiting for ever since she'd set her signature under the admittance form.

With a questioning look, she looked up. Bernie nodded silently and all of them opened their files. Lee quickly, with hands trembling from sheer excitement, rushed through the handful of pages and maybe a dozen Polaroid photos, then looked up again.

"A Rabbi and a Mullah?" her voice reflected her state of disbelief. "Are you kidding, Sir?"

"I can assure you, _agent Sarrazano_," stressing her title, Brian turned serious, "I would love to, but I'm serious. Sometime during the last 24 hours, Mullah Kareem Abdoul ibn Kareem, resident of New York City, Secretary General of the Islamic Society of North America, and Samuel Levi Rosenbaum, Chief Rabbi of the United States, resident of Washington D.C. have disappeared from their offices, without leaving the slightest trace and haven't been seen ever since. These gentlemen are two of the religious leaders of this country."

Measuring the girls with his glance, Bernie leaned back in his chair. "Go through your files, Triplet, you've got five minutes!" he commanded, checking his watch.

Acknowledging his order, the girls went silent and concentrated on the reports and evidence material, every now and then taking short notices. _Just like in the good old times at the Academy, doing our case studies_, Jackie dreamed away for a second.

"Time's up, ladies. Your ideas! No thinking, just say the first thing on the tip of your tongue. Five minutes. Go, go, go!" Bernie snapped his file shut and with an impatient gesture nodded towards the girls. Brian, while silently enjoying himself, produced his Mont Blanc fountain pen and his notebook, ready to take notes.

"No signs of violence, no signs of struggle, no kidnapping," started Christie somewhat timidly. The Mont Blanc scraped a few words. "You wouldn't struggle too much either if someone held a .44 against your forehead. I'd assume, agent Mulcahy, that you'd prefer to go silently and hope for a better moment to escape. Further!" retorted Bernie, but gave a curt, approving nod.

"I wouldn't have allowed anyone point a .44 at me, for one..." mumbled Christie barely audibly; she had to admit Bernie was right or at least he had a valid point.

"No farewell letters found, either at their offices, or at their homes. No obvious suicide. Could be an accident, though," interjected Jackie. Brian measured her with an approving glance. "That's an option, hospitals and morgues need to be checked. Can't completely exclude suicide, though," he went on.

Christie shook her gorgeous head. "With all respect, Sir, two identical suicides? Too much of a coincidence and too few evidences."

"I still prefer the kidnapping idea," Lee stood up and walked over to the flipchart, drawing several bullet points. "One: an atheist who's got fed up with God's ideas. Two: someone, who wants to destabilize the status quo in the Middle East, kidnaps an important Jew and an important Moslim and lets the two sides blame each other. Three: a bigot Christian on a modern Crusade."

"Too much of John Grisham, if you ask my opinion, agent Sarrazano." Brian's eyes laughed but his voice was serious.

"Sir, we have to check out if they had common friends or enemies, if they had appointments with the same person or persons," countered Lee.

"Then do it, agent Sarrazano!" snapped Bernie in a mocking harsh voice; he couldn't mistake the joy in the girl's eyes as she got permission to carry out her first individual investigation and was secretly amusing himself. "If you need to fly to DC, Susan or Cathy will arrange the ticket for you on the first available flight."

"With your permission, Sir," with a deep blush on her face Lee collected her things and without waiting for his answer rushed out of the meeting room. The other four followed her with their eyes, the commanders with certain amusement at her antics, the two female agents with a hint of jealousy and pride at the same time.

"Agent Slocombe, your idea. Hospitals, morgues, 'lost & found'. Agent Mulcahy, written plan and a detailed analysis of the events and evidences so far. Request feedback from your colleagues via scrambled telephone lines only. At 18:00 report back to me. That's it." With a nervous gesture Brian dismissed the meeting. When the girls left, he turned to Bernie.

"Eager, aren't they?" he inquired absentmindedly, lighting a Camel with his antique Zippo and offering one him as well from his leather port-cigars.

"They were best of class at the Academy but got somewhat rusty here. They want to prove themselves," the Theta Squad leader replied, massaging his aching temples.

"Maybe they are even too eager to do so," he mused while standing up and opening the blinds.

"Watch out for them, will you? I don't want them to get hurt on their first mission," Brian clapped him on his shoulder.

"Me neither, Commander, me neither..." the former Marine agreed, looking deep into the Commander's eyes. "Care for a real coffee instead of this instant crap?"

"You know bloody well I can never say 'no', don't you?" admitted Brian, throwing back his chair and standing up in one smooth movement. "Sue, we're off for half an hour. We're on the phone, if need be."  
"Right-o, Chef!" Susan laughed, instantly redirecting the two incoming phone lines. "Will you think of your favourite secretary while you are drinking your Honey Delight?" she added with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

"Oriental Mocca, with cinnamon, right?" inquired the Commander, nodding his agreement.


	3. Chapter 3

In the US, serious business is made while playing golf. Corporate strategies are discussed, mergers approved, products dropped or added, fates of employees decided, while casually beating the hell out of that tiny white ball.

In Japan, one would visit a teahouse with his business partner, trying to impress them with hiring some of the most expensive and best trained geisha's around. After the umpteenth portion of warm sake, any inhibitions one might've had will have most probably reduced to next to nothing making the deal a fact, needing only some signatures and company chops the tired and sleepy executives will provide next thing in the morning, still wincing from their headaches caused by their biggest hangover of the century.

In Russia, the best place for making decisions is the _banya _(1). Stalin has woven his conspiracy theories under the hot steam having his back patted by carefully selected massagists, whose background had been thoroughly checked by the _NKVD_ (2) and whose lives came abruptly to an end shortly afterwards in a dark street, either hit by a car or by a 7,62 mm bullet from close distance. It was the _banya_ where the plans to get rid of Gorbatchev were forged in 1991, and it was the _banya_ where the former president had been presented with an ultimatum to step aside and enjoy his old days in his dacha (3) in Podmoskovye (4).

_Been there, seen all that, _smirked the man with the steel blue eyes immersing from his memories. As he emerged from the underground, looked up to the clear, starry sky, then continued his steady pace towards a place known only to him. Finally he reached the entrance to the park the Moscovites called VDNH (5), an exhibition grounds covering several square miles. From one of the pavilions now acting as a hip discotheque loud music was heard. The makeshift parking lot in front of the pavilion was by now half filled with expensive cars; the _nouveau riche_ (6) youth arriving either in their own sports cars or in Dad's limousine, accompanied by the odd bodyguard. Some eyes were even at that early evening hour already either vodka-shot or coke-shot, the obvious sign that for their owners this evening had started early. Blonde hair was falling on bony shoulders, breasts were screaming out their protests for having been squeezed into a bra one size too small, shorter than short skirts were flashing perfect, long legs and firm backsides.

The loudness of the music started disturbing the man's refined senses and he readjusted his hearing. From the back seat of a Town Car limo other sounds hit his ears, loud moans, groans and the unmistakable sound of bare skin slapping against bare skin, and the man smiled. Making a small gesture towards the car, he smiled when the moans grew louder and the pace of the slapping quickened. _May, youth, hormones, though I preferred plein air, _he thought, recalling his careless teenage years. Then, he shook away the memories and set off towards the spot he'd already used before: the Apparition Point with its unmistakable, faint blue glow.

Almost welcoming the familiar sensation he'd experienced thousands of times in his long life, he landed gracefully on his legs in front of a 20-ft high concrete fence with barb wire on top of it, only a few yards away from a heavy iron gate with several security cameras and a reinforced Mercedes SUV with two police officers armed to teeth. Three consecutive flicks of his short wand sent a short outburst of magic into the cameras temporarily scrambling them, cast a powerful Disillusionment Charm on him and silently levitated him over the fence, then his feet touched ground in the garden of the private residence of the President of the Russian Federation.

Though the residencies of most Muggle Politicians anywhere in the world were Unplottable, thus not appearing on any Muggle or Wizarding map, he had a fairly good mental map of the property. Two days ago he followed one of the security officers to a small bar the officer used to frequent. Announcing that it was his birthday, the man ordered several rounds of vodka to the public of the bar. When his target was already half drunk – and it took quite some time as the officer was an expert drinker - he performed Legilimency on him and obtained all the necessary information on the residency. A weak Mass Memory Charm and several banknotes left at his table were enough to make the public and the barmen forget about him.

Now, as he was standing just a few steps away from his target, he suddenly went into mission mode. He performed a Supersensory Charm again, enabling him to see in the complete darkness broken only by the faint light filtering through the windows of the one-storey high red brick building he was heading to. He rather felt than saw the guard standing in front of the entrance turning towards him and in the same smooth movement producing his _Makarov_ (7). With a swift sidestep he led the hand pointing the pistol at him away, while his index finger on his right hand found that particular spot on his attacker's skull. Applying some light pressure on the nerves was enough to render the guard unconscious for the coming few hours and he gently lay down the body on the grass behind the building, away from the prying eyes. He automatically checked the pistol and hid it inside his leather jacket, then tried the door.

Once inside, he was immediately struck by the heat. It was irritating his eyes and burning inside his nostrils. _Some like it hot_, he sneered, performing a simple Cooling Charm and carefully stepping further. The corridor was covered with an exquisite red carpet, the walls wainscotted with expensive sorts of tropical wood. On each sides of the corridors there were two doors and a fifth, beautifully carved one opposite the entrance. Taking several cautious steps, the man walked over to the door and pointed with his wand at the lock, just in case, whispering "_Alohomora!_". The door opened and the man found himself in a richly decorated room in front of an oval mahogany table laid for one, surrounded by four mahogany chairs. Vodka, crackers, red caviar. _Mr. President has certainly good taste_, he thought, perusing a small silver knife and helping himself to a cracker and some caviar. He closed his eyes while he enjoyed the delicacy, which may have cost a couple of thousand dollars a pound.

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye he saw brief movement and he sidestepped behind the door, away from the prying eye. The source of the noise was a middle-sized man, broad-shouldered, in his mid-fifties, wearing only a towel around his waist. With steady steps, he moved towards the same room. The man recognized the President in an instant and Disillusioned himself again.

The President sat down by the table and poured precisely 50 gram of the ice cold, crystal clear vodka into his glass. Holding the glass against the light for a while, he silently toasted upon something and downed the strong drink. Helping himself to some caviar, he delightedly closed his eyes as he was munching on a cracker. He shook awake only when he heard the creaking noise of the floorboard as the man neared him.

"Is that you, Georgi?" he inquired in a voice, accustomed to infinite powers and immediate obedience. He finched his nose when he got no answer, stood up and produced a .22 Beretta from a hidden drawer.

"Georgi, come here, this instant!" he commanded, releasing the safety pin of the pistol. Again no answer. Much to his surprise, however, he lost his grip at the Beretta and the gun soared through the air, only to land a second later in the left hand of a man, with short blond hair and piercing blue eyes, who'd just materialized in his room seemingly out of thin air.

The President, a former paratrooper, took a run at the man, but was thrown back a few yards by an invisible force and landed on the carpet. Shaking his head, he tried to stand up when the man started to speak in perfect Russian, only with a slightest hint of an accent the President could not place.

"I'm Georgi, Mr. President, only not _the _Georgi you've been expecting. He's taking a nap outside on the fresh air," the newcomer explained and the President snorted. "He'll be dealt with tomorrow for leaving his post. Who are you, _Georgi_, how did you get in here and what do you want from me?"

"So many questions in such a short time, Mr. President … or would you prefer _Tovarishch_ (8) First Secretary instead?" inquired the man with an ironic edge in his voice. "Fifteen years gone, and still not a bit of change. Only, all the old Comrades are all Misters or even Sirs. After all, there's nothing money can't buy. Even centuries-old titles are for sale. But that's not the point."

"Why you sneaky bastard..." started the President flushing red, but the man raised his index finger.

"Tsk, tsk, where are your Oxford manners, _Tovarishch_?" he stressed the last word, again not without acid in his words. "Where were we? Ah yes. Changes. You see, things _will_ change. In your country, in the world, everywhere, and pretty soon. I will see to it. The very first thing to change, right here and right now, is your position. As of now, you are no longer the President of the Russian Federation," he stated as-a-matter-of-factly, not losing eye contact with the President for one second.

As he launched himself at the newcomer again, the stranger held up his right hand and a red flash appeared from his palm, making contact with the chest of the President and smashing him into the wall behind.

Shaking his head, the stranger knelt beside him. "You just don't get it, do you, _tovarishch_? Don't engage into a fight you can't win. Haven't you been taught this in the army?" Piling up some more caviar on another cracker, he nodded in delight. "Do you mind, if I... But of course you don't mind, vodka has to be drunk while ice-cold." He poured some into another glass and smelled the fluid.

"_Stolichnaya _(9)? You, the ex-president of one-sixth of the Earth drink this crap? With all respect... but then, you are a man of traditions, aren't you? To Changes!" he toasted and downed the strong drink in one gulp. Tapping his glass with his wand, he returned to the man, still lying on the ground.

"I do understand your traditions; one couldn't find a better place in this country to do serious business than a _banya._ Good food, a drink or two, young girls or boys depending on your preferences, two serious partners, what else do we need? So, I'd say, let's get down to business, shall we? Better hurry now, we have a Portkey to catch and a world to change. Would you mind holding this for me?" he inquired, thrusting the glass in his hand. As soon as the President touched the glass, the two men were transported away in a blue flash.

. . . .

Russian News Agency "Novosti"

May 11, 2007

"The President of the Russian Federation, Mr. Fedor Kuznetsov has been admitted yesterday to a private clinic due to a viral infection on his lungs. He's being administered antibiotics and doing well. According to his attending physicist, the President will be able to resume his daily activities by May 25, just in time before his planned visit to the United Kingdom".

(1) sauna, bath house, Russian

(2) People's Comissariat for Internal Affairs, the much feared police organization of the Stalin era

(3) holiday home, Russian

(4) the vicinity of Moscow where the dacha's and residencies of VIP's are located, Russian

(5) Exhibition Center of the Achievements of Industry and Economy, Russian

(6) lit. "the new rich", French

(7) The standard 9 mm sidegun of the Russian Police forces in the 90's, named after its designer

(8) Comrade, Russian

(9) The best-known Russian vodka brand, lit. "from the capital", Russian


	4. Chapter 4

Harry was standing in the center of the brand new, hypermodern Quidditch stadium of the Holyhead Harpies. Opened just two days short of the beginning of the Quidditch season, it still emanated the scent of fresh wood, wet paint and a healthy dose of adrenaline.

His eyes marvelled the tribunes, capable of seating 45000 spectators of this modern gladiator-game, and the six golden rings, seemingly floating in mid-air. Though he knew the loops were actually placed on wooden poles, he thought it a wonderful idea of the designer to have Disillusioned those poles, adding to the ever-existing mysticism of the game.

As his eyes wandered around, he couldn't help but recall those times in Hogwarts, when he, wearing the red and golden Quidditch robes, marched proudly with his six teammates to decide the fate of the Cup. The last time he had flown seemed ages ago, in his seventh year, after Voldemort's downfall, in an extremely tight match against Slytherin. It had been the very first time Malfoy had beaten him to the Snitch. The two were flying side by side, their hands stretched to the maximum, as they chased the golden globe with its two tiny wings, but Malfoy had a somewhat better position, albeit with an inch only. Gryffindor still won the match, much to Ron's fantastic Keeping and the eleven goals scored by Ginny alone.

That match would always be one to remember, thought Harry. Not only because their win secured the House Cup; more importantly, because Slytherin played absolutely fair throughout the whole match and at the end Harry and Draco congratulated each other for the good play, sealing it with a firm handshake. Much to Ron's annoyance, truth be told, but his annoyance quickly turned into a somewhat comic disbelief when Draco and the other Slytherins offered their hands to all the Gryffindors, including him.

Hearing the familiar "zoom" of several brooms, Harry sighed and tore his eyes away from the goalposts. Boy he loved flying! He would have given everything just to feel that adrenaline rush in his blood again, making lazy circles around the pitch at a height of 100 feet, training his eyes on that tiny golden flash.

Before he could even finish his thought, he was already surrounded by 14 witches on brooms, temptingly circling around him. The girls – the Harpies' A and B teams, distinguishable only by their red or blue gloves – were waving with their hands or flashing their trademark smiles at him. The training was just about to begin and he understood it was the sign for him to leave the pitch. Much to his surprise, a broom was thrown at him and Louise, the captain, spoke to him in her ringing voice.

"We've been thinking, Harry, whether or not we should believe the rumours that you're really that good at flying." She winked at her giggling teammates. "Why don't you train with us today? Two teams, three Seekers, swapping every 15 minutes. Do we have a deal?" The other girls cheered and nudged him. Seeing his hesitation, Ginny jumped off her broom, enclosing him in a hug.

"Is Mr. Hero afraid of a handful of defenseless witches?" she whispered into his ears, pressing her tiny frame into him.

"Minx!" he said in a mock serious voice, holding her at arm's length, then effortlessly lifting her onto her patiently waiting broom. Saddling the ancient Nimbus 2000 – once his biggest treasure – he put on the blue gloves he was offered, meaning that now he was on Ginny's team. On the trainer's whistle the two teams kicked off the ground and the training match began.

As soon as the Quaffle, the Bludgers and the Snitch were released, Harry soared up, straight into the skies, enjoying the wind sweeping through his hair. He almost cried out loud from excitement, feeling again, after so many years, the almost forgotten sensation of becoming one with his trusted friend and his suddenly unlimited freedom, then stopped in a position with the sun behind him so that he wouldn't be blinded by the glowing orb. His maneuver did not miss the attention of the Red team's Seeker, Janet, and she approached him carefully, watching out for his every moment.

"Need some company here, Harry?" she inquired in a playful voice, but Harry knew better than falling for this distraction. Shaking his head, he adjusted his hands on the broom handle for a better grip. Suddenly, from the corner of his left eye, he caught sight of a golden glimpse. At first, he wasn't sure of what he'd seen, but then he saw the flash again, and then for the third time, this time moving towards him, just about 50 yards higher than his current position. Making sure his voice and slightly changed sitting position wouldn't immediately give away his intentions, he caught up with the other Seeker as if nothing had happened. "Well, the company of a beautiful young witch is always welcome, but I'm already booked for the coming 100 years, sorry... Watch out for the Bludger!" he suddenly shrieked and pointed to his right.

The girl had good reflexes and took a quick sharp turn to her right. Harry mentally applauded himself; he'd played his role perfectly. He knew that his ancient broom was no match against the Harpies' Firefoxes, so he could only hope to have distracted the girl long enough to gain a few yards on her. Seeing the Snitch still flying towards him, he pulled up the broom and took a breathtaking half-looping, hoping that he'd calculated the traject of the ball correctly. To his great surprise, when he levelled the broom again, he found the Snitch only a mere two feet ahead of him. Catching it was a piece of cake, and while the still somewhat confused Red Seeker desperately tried to locate him, he was already speeding towards the centre of the pitch, one hand with the Snitch raised high in victory.

He jumped off the broom still airborne, from a height of probably six to seven feet, and threw the Snitch to the trainer. Jenna caught it mid-air, checking her watch.

"Two minutes, twenty-seven seconds. Not bad, Harry, not bad. Shame the Harpies won't hire males," she nodded approvingly, patting Harry's shoulder. Blowing her whistle, she collected the other players as well, while Harry took off his gloves and gave them to the third Seeker, who was watching the match from the centre, together with Jenna.

"Careful with the sun, it's pretty tricky up there," he advised and the girl nodded her thanks.

This time Harry sat down on the grass in the center of the pitch and summoned two ice-cold cans of Coca-Cola from his bag. Handing over one to Jenna, he flipped the can open and they toasted.

Blissfully sipping from the cold drink, they watched the two teams play. Harry sat there, absolutely unconsciously, as if still seated on the broom, steering it left and right, making imaginary dives and Jenna smiled at him understandingly.

"Are you sure that being an Auror is what you really want, Harry? You have flying in your blood. I watched you up there; it seemed as if you'd known where the Snitch would go and you calculated your flight accordingly."

Looking into her eyes, Harry smiled. "I won't deny I had some ideas of going professional. I do love flying, even if it might seem that I can't finish a single match without being hurt. I just … don't know what had made me finally sign up with Robards. I reckon I just wanted to help make the world safer."

"Now that's rubbish, Mr. Wizarding Hero," Jenna raised her voice. "You've done more for the wizarding and Muggle worlds, even being an underage and unqualified wizard, than any other adult might have been capable of. You should have enjoyed yourself, taken a free year and spent your time with your friends and families and let other people worry about the fate of the world." Hearing the word "families", the grin disappeared from Harry's face for a while, but then he understood the real meaning of Jenna's words. Yes, he had "families". While being married to Ginny made him officially part of the Weasley clan, they had always considered Harry as a Weasley, their son, their brother. On the other hand, he was tied to Hermione with feelings deeper and stronger than simply friendship or even love. It was something the Grangers didn't quite understand but nevertheless, effectively accepted him into their family.

He was awoken from his thoughts by the familiar "whoosh" of a Bludger, obviously lost on its way, soaring straight into them. Within a fracture of a second he jumped up and in the same movement pushed Jenna out of harm's way. In the process he tripped, knocked the girl on the ground and effectively landed on her. The Bludger already couldn't stop and hit the ground exactly where she sat, creating a neat little crater in it from the sheer force of the impact.

Blushing sheepishly, he jumped to his feet and pulled the trainer up as well. "Erm... Jenna, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

"Well, you're no featherweight, Harry, but I guess that Bludger would have hurt me much more. I need to admit I hadn't seen it coming, so I owe you one," she nodded, painfully rubbing her shoulders.

"And moreover," joined in Ginny, suddenly appearing besides them, "he had the decency not to check you out while you were flattened out as a pancake." Her words were met with roaring laughter from the other girls who, seeing the small accident, also rushed to the centre of the pitch. Jenna, being a rather curvaceous, gorgeous girl, was very hard to imagine as a pancake.

"Shall I ground you for a week, Mrs. Potter?" inquired the trainer with dangerously narrowing eyes, earning just some more laughter from the players, which she was forced to join nevertheless, seeing the innocent it-wasn't-me puppy look in Ginny's eyes.

"All right, Harry, fancy another flight? This time with the Reds, if you please, I want to see how you do against Hazel." Rubbing her hands, the Blue Seeker nodded; she took up the glove thrown at her. Upon Jenna's whistle, the teams took off again and this time, Harry decided to stay low. While continuously scanning the sky for the Snitch and keeping an eye on the Bludgers, he made some sharp turns, took some innocent dives, just to see how the other seeker would react. She was following him closely, and from what he saw, Hazel was a really good flyer on a much better broom than his.

He had no trouble spotting the Snitch, just a couple of minutes into the game, but he had to slow down as he say the two Blue Beaters flying head-to-head at him yelling something to each other. When it was a mere few yards until their imminent collision, he went into a crash-dive. Then, a strange feeling hit him.

emSilvery blond hair covering a beautiful face./em

emCrystal-clear blue eyes looking deep into mine./em

emFeather-light touches of long, white fingers, setting my body on fire./em

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Opening his eyes, he realized in awe that he was just a few yards from the ground, and collecting all his strength, tried to level the broom before it could crash into the ground. With a relieved sigh he acknowledged that he'd survived the maneuvre and resumed his circling around the pitch.

This time he had more luck and he saw the Snitch almost immediately, just above the head of his own Keeper. Taking a slow U-turn, he flew towards her, waving at her, when seemingly from nowhere, the two Blue Beaters reappeared and the feeling hit him again. This time it was different, much more powerful; a hot, dry wind sweeping over him, burning his nostrils and leaving him gasping for breath.

emA perfect body being slowly stripped of silk stockings and lacy underwear./em

emA quick swish of a wand lighting several candles and filling the air with sweet scents./em

emMy heart pounding in my chest with exasperation./em

Pressing his lips together, he tried to concentrate on his love for Ginny, the feeling of her lips on his, as he tried to shake away the feeling, at the same time feverishly attempting to regain control over his broom. Yet, this small distraction was enough to lose the Snitch from his eyesight and not even thirty seconds later a victorious roar signalled to him that Hazel had captured the Snitch. Jenna's signal called off the training and the girls headed towards the centre, and Harry, still fuming from anger, followed them.

When he caught up with Hazel, he shook her hand, congratulating her for the nice capture. Then he turned to his wife. "Ginny, do you think you girls will mind if I stay at the pitch and fly some more while you take a shower? It just feels so good to be able to fly again. Merlin, I miss Quidditch!"

"I can't imagine that anybody from the Harpies would be against seeing The Saviour of the Wizarding World training at their pitch. Here, take emmy/em broom, Harry!" Ginny threw him her brand new Firefox 2007, which came as a package deal with her new contract. Nodding his thanks and kissing her firmly on the lips, Harry took off, waving at the girls.

He flew a few lazy rounds around the field, just to get used to the broom. Then, as he began feeling more comfortable, he took some sharp bends and U-turns, then soared high up in the sky, only to go into a high-speed dive a second later. His heart was pounding in his chest, partly because of the previous event, partly because of the excitement of complete freedom as he became one with the Firefox.

Suddenly, he became aware that none of the girls had gone to the shower, on the contrary, all of them were watching his maneuvres in excitement and awe. He slowed down and flashed a smile at the Harpies when he felt it again.

emSilky, moist lips caressing my neck, my collarbones, my earlobes./em

emFirm, round breasts pressed against my bare chest./em

emSoft moans, loving whispers./em

He turned round and still in mid-air jumped off the broom. Drawing his wand, he made his way towards the group of girls. "emAccio Veela!/em" he shouted. The other girls watched in awe as the new Beater, Stephanie soared through them, only to land in Harry's hands a second later.

"So, this is why the Holyhead Harpies are second in the Championship this year," he concluded as he looked into the blue eyes of the girl, who was desperately trying to wriggle herself free from the young Auror's firm grip. "The only team you haven't yet been able to beat this year are the Cannons. Veela charms don't work on the trolls they've been hiring recently, do they?" he laughed. The small group burst out in laughter as well, while the Veela flushed red.

Winking at Ginny, he drew the Veela closer and hugged her tight to himself, giving her a healthy snog. Then, holding the slightly dizzy girl at arm's length, he said in a low voice, so that only Stephanie and Ginny could hear him, "You know, Steph, I might want to have a word with the Minister and see if we can release Umbridge from Azkaban earlier. Maybe we can even give her back her old position at the Ministry..."

"I've always wanted to snog a Veela, and with my girlfriend around, it gives me some extra kick, emsweetheart/em, so … no hard feelings, right?" he continued in a mock husky tone. The startled girl could barely utter her agreement, "N...no hard feelings, Harry..."

Wearing his trademark smile, Harry took Ginny's hands and silently prayed that his arousal would remain unnoticed to the girls as he Apparated the two of them away from the pitch, straight into their bathroom.

An hour later, the blissfully content and somewhat senseless-shagged couple were lying on their bed, enjoying the proximity of each other, when a Patronus in the form of a terrier appeared from thin air. The dog shook his head and spoke in Ron's voice.

"Ginny, at least have the decency to cover yourself up, I'm not interested in your boobs and other spare parts. Harry, have you passed the Veela test?"

"Yes, but barely. What?" inquired a startled Harry. "You knew about all this and said nothing?"

"I was curious how long you'd last. Mind you, you've done better than me, I had to sleep two weeks on the couch after I got 'introduced' to Steph," answered Patronus-Ron in a somewhat irritated voice.

"Harry snogged her senseless and asked her if she wanted to invite Umbridge for a cup of tea," laughed Ginny, playfully slapping her boyfriend. "And all this while I was watching. I bet he was enjoying himself, the prat!"

"Anyway, when the two of you are done with your anatomy lessons, would Commander Potter be so kind as to move his lazy arse and come to the Ministry? Code Red." Ron turned serious. "Harry, the Muggle Prime Minister and Kingsley both went missing this morning."


	5. Chapter 5

_The same day_

To say that agent Sarrazano was dissatisfied with the last few days' results would have been the understatement of the century. One could safely assume she was pissed like hell. Having gotten her – their – first _real_ assignment filled her with a generous amount of adrenaline; she was all too eager to do her job and do it properly, but now, almost a week later, they still booked absolutely no results.

One can't say, though, that was completely their fault. On the contrary, the Triplet took the assignment very seriously, not only because it was their first real chance to prove themselves, but also, because the case was considered of paramount importance.

Their lack of result were, primarily, thanks to the fact, that whatever had happened to the rabbi and the mullah, it seemed as if they'd never existed. There were no signs of force used against them, no signs of violence, no forced doors, no hate mails, written or in electronic form, no cyber attacks on the computers of the two, NOTHING. The two men seemed to have simply evaporated from the surface of the Earth.

In the last couple of days, Lee's otherwise tidy, neat living room looked more of a tornado-strucken disaster area somewhere in Oklahoma. Empty packages from the Chinese takeaway, half-empty beer- and soda cans and several half-smoked cigarettes decorated the small journal table. The sink in the kitchen was loaded with dirty plates and there was a dinstinctive smell of stale cheese and mouldy bread lingering around the place. Were Lee a male, by now she would've had a 4-day beard as well. Having worked 16-18 hours a day was certainly starting to take its toll and agent Lee was exhausted beyond limits.

It was just after 2 am; Chrissie and Jackie had just left her place, but not before they'd added to the growing heap of orderly disorder. Having carefully evaluated her options, Lee had absolutely no illusions about going to bed; she knew she wouldn't be able to fall asleep again. Opening the windows, she let the cool, fresh air in, took a few sharp breaths, rinsing her lungs and enjoyed the healing silence of the night for a while. Then, opening one of the closets, she produced a roll of blue polyethylene garbage bags, tore one bag off the roll and started methodically cleaning up the mess.

After half an hour she deemed the house more and less livable again and, having brewed a pot of fresh coffee, sat down, letting her tension go. Then, still deep in thought, she collected the case materials, still laying scattered in the living room. Holding the two photographs in her hands: those of the rabbi and the mullah, she sat back at her kitchen table and tried to recall all facts they'd learned so far.

"It just doesn't fit altogether. Talk to me, guys. Tell me what you know!" She growled in frustration, barely managing to suppress her anger, and slammed her fists at the table. She dove under the table to pick up her teaspoon, when something caught her attention. There were some newspapers piled up under the table, and an incomplete sentence on one of the pages made her almost jump. Producing the paper in question, she smoothened the page and started reading.

"_From our special correspondent Peter J. Nowakowski_

**Merger of Stock Exchanges a Hoax or a Close Possibility?**

_Just less than an hour ago, Albert Goldman, the president of NYSE and Edward P. Robertson, the president of NASDAQ have been spotted inside a downtown restaurant in New York. Two of America's most influentuous persons seemed to enjoy a casual chitchat and a bottle of 1979 Chablis, while waiting for their hors d'oeuvre._

_This sighting may add fuel to the rumours that the two stock exchanges might announce their mergers in the foreseeable future, in an attempt to tighten control on the financial world, a step, which would have many supporters, and at least as many opponents._

_Our calls to NYSE and NASDAQ haven't been returned, as of yet. We will certainly follow up on this news."_

Lee checked the date of the paper, it was the Wednesday issue; the news was four days old. Something was bugging her about this small, at first sight unimportant article, but she couldn't tell where else she'd seen those two names together. Finally she gave up and produced the whole heap of newspapers, lying under the table in no chronological order.

Rummaging through the issues, she quickly scanned the headlines, not missing a single one of them with her well-trained eyes. At the Academy they'd been taught to distinguish important bits of information from useless litter, and, while Christie was really good at it, Lee couldn't complain either.

"Gotcha!" she exclaimed victoriously, when she found the name of Albert Goldman again. To her surprise, it was yesterday's paper, which somehow got mixed up with older issues. Feverishly reading through the article, she went pale. Then, without even thinking, she reached for her cell phone.

Bernie, their Theta Squad leader, was on speed dial. Within ten seconds, he answered the phone, clearly unhappy.

"Agent Sarrazano?" he mumbled, barely suppressing the urge to curse out loud.

"My apologies, Sir," Lee swallowed nervously. "I couldn't sleep, and I was going through my files."

"Well, _I_ could sleep," barked Bernie irritatedly. "Have you solved the mystery yet?"

"Sir, do you know anything about Mr. Goldman and Mr. Robertson?" Lee was becoming more self-conscious by the minute. She smelt something out-of -the-ordinary and was determined not to let go of it, just like a pitbull. "I wouldn't have woken you, but yesterday's article... it kept me thinking..."

Bernie became immediately full awake. "Go on, Lana," he nudged the girl. "Share your findings with me, if you would."

"Do you know what _REALLY_ had happened to these two, Sir?"

"Jackson and his team are already on it. Why is it that you are so much interested in these guys?"

"Sir, to me, they are as good as gone. It's eerily similar to our case. I can't explain why, but I can't stop thinking about it." There was brief silence on the other end of the line and Lee suddenly started fearing whether or not what she'd just said was a bunch of crap.

Bernie, however, did give consideration to her words. "Go to sleep, _Lana_. I want to see you in the office, at 8 am sharp. Bring me ideas and facts. Good night." With a click, the line went dead, and Lee stared at the useless phone in her hand in disbelief for a long, long moment.

"Why do I feel the sudden urge to question myself whether or not I'd just blown it?" mused Lee, not really knowing what to do with Bernie's words. Rubbing her tired eyes for a second – ten hours straight behind a computer wasn't the best option if one was desperate to preserve his eyesight – she produced her digital voice recorder she'd used during interrogations. Attaching a cable between the recorder and her laptop, she started up her voice transcript program and pressed the "Play" button on the recorder.

She was carefully listening to the heavy accented, yet melodic female voice, belonging to the housekeeper of mullah Kareem. At the same time, her eyes followed the letters, words, sentences, running on the screen, as the software was transcribing spoken text into written text. Technology fascinated her, although she was by far no modern computer genius, or geek; she merely had a good understanding of what works how and how it best can be put to use.

The recording lasted about 25 minutes. Lee saved the raw transcript and went through it once again to capture any possible errors. While the software was state-of-the art, it did have its bugs and caveats, and Lee spent another half an hour on correcting misspelled words. The file, however, didn't contain any useful information, so she just printed it out for the record. Not knowing what to do next, she opened a connection to the central database and ran a query on the housekeeper. She sent the data to her printer and ran through the information quickly, mentally highlighting the informative bits.

"_... Fatima Rebzadeh ..._

_... born in Amman,The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, 22 July, 1970 ..._

_... American citizenship since 1 December, 1993 ..._

_... speeding in exceed of 20 mph ..._

_... unsolicited parking... when questioned, seemed disoriented, glassy eyes... arrested on DUI charges... blood test negative, charges dropped... "_

This last tidbit caught her attention and she re-checked the date of the record.

"Holy crap! This happened the day Kareem had disappeared, shortly after 8 pm!"

She congratulated herself; this was the reason why Fatimah hadn't shown up in Kareem's apartment. Normally she'd come every other day, do the cleaning, refill the fridge, have a coffee with the mullah and leave about 10 pm, the neighbours had confirmed. That particular day she hadn't come at all, neither before, nor after 8 pm.

There was one more thing that had caught her eyes in the record. Rummaging in the files, she pulled another transcript, a report of the police officer who'd arrived first at the office of Rabbi Rosenbaum, shortly after his wife reported his disappearance.

"_Secretary Ida Goldschmidt... disoriented... glassy eyes... doesn't remember her name... taken to hospital for surveillance..."_

_There it is!_ Lee's built-in sixth, seventh and eight senses were crying out loud. She found something else in common between the two disappearances, something that had previously skipped the attention of all of them.

_Here's your lead, agent Sarrazano. Not much of a lead, but still. Play your cards well, and who knows, maybe... You might have to ask on a nineteen, though._

The second time this night, Lee felt she was on the right track. Highlighting the appropriate entries in the two files, she quickly cleaned up the mess after herself, and not even bothering to take a shower, cleaning her teeth or even undressing, lay on her bed. Sleep consumed her the very next minute.

Her sleep was short, however. She was woken from a hazy dream by her cell phone, madly vibrating on her night stand. From the ringtone she knew immediately it was someone from Theta Squad. Not being able to suppress her frustration, she barked into the phone.

"Sarrazano listening."

"Sorry to wake you from your beauty sleep, agent. Get your ass together and come in. Immediately!" Bernie seemed to be fully awake.

"Sir, may I ask what has happened?" Lee inquired, combing her unruly hair with one hand.

"Of course you may, agent Sarrazano. Badge, sidearm, laptop, usual communications media, make sure you have everything on you."

"Shall I..."

"Your partners have been alerted. I hope none of you has aerophobia. We're going to Camp David."

* * *

"_CNN Breaking News_

_May 16, 2007 04:49 am_

_Our reporter at Camp David, Jeremy Rhoads, covering the President's ground-breaking meeting with the First Secretary of the Chinese Communist Party, Mr. Chen Erh-Lian, earlier today, reports an unusual concentration of security forces inside and around the compound, and the landing of several helicopters, belonging to different Government agencies and the Air Forces._

_All roads leading to Camp David have been closed and at this very moment fully armed Apache helicopters are patrolling the airspace in the area._

_We don't know what possibly could have happened inside the compound, but reliable sources have informed us that there had been no direct orders to prepare Air Force One for takeoff. We have received no news on terrorist attacks or the possibility thereof either._

_A few minutes ago, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, Mrs. Susan Flanagan, announced an emergency press conference, due to start at 05:30 sharp. No questions have been answered, as of yet, and no comments have been given._

_Until the press conference, it's too early to speculate. We know one thing for sure. This is a national emergency situation, but we call upon every American citizen to remain calm._

_We will, of course, provide detailed live coverage of the press conference in whole; in the meantime, we will promptly report any possible development."_


	6. Chapter 6

His Holiness the Pope was having his simple breakfast when all this happened, listening to the melodic voice of his personal secretary who was reading him the headlines of the morning newspapers in almost a dozen languages. His eyesight was failing him, his doctor, however, strongly discouraged him undergoing surgery due to his weakened state. Padre Falcone, a very perspectivic Benedictine monk was glad to take on this extra task; he knew that serving well one of the most powerful men on Earth would be very rewarding to his further career inside the Church.

They stopped briefly at an article from Die Zeit about a few Holocaust survivors demonstrating at the building of the German Supreme Court against the release of an alleged war criminal, when a bright blue flash filled the room blinded against the relentless morning sun and His Holiness was briefly forced to close his eyes. When he opened them again, he blinked a few times, just to let his eyes readjust and dipped his tears with a silken handkerchief, richly embroidered in golden thread. To his greatest surprise, he saw Falcone lying on the floor, unconscious. Heavily rising from his intricately carved mahogany chair, richly inlaid with mother-of-pearl and other precious sorts of wood – a gift of Louis XIV to the Vatican – he went to see whether the man was alright when a strong, invisible hand stopped him underway and thrust something in his hand and the next moment another blue flash came, transporting him away from his office.

It happened two days ago and His Holiness had spent all these days in an unknown to him place. He understood at once he was being held captive; the door to the spacious suite, his new habitat, was firmly locked. Nobody was answering his questions, shouted in all languages he knew; nobody came to open the door when he pounded with his fists against the heavy wooden panel. So His Holiness, after a good fifteen minutes of vain attempts of making himself heard, gave up and waited for something, _anything_ to happen.

It wasn't as if he had anything to complain about, though. The suite was huge and furnished with every imaginable luxury he was used to in the Vatican. There was a sitting area with two extremely comfortable armchairs and a sofa in front of a fireplace, only, he realized with a frown, the embers glowed with a faint green light instead of the warm red he loved to watch so much. He didn't understand anyway why one would need a fireplace here; from the huge window he could see a deserted, virgin tropical beach with white sand and rows of palm trees as far as his eyes could reach.

There was a huge cupboard with clothes – precisely his size – and a bookshelf with various books and behind an almost invisible door he found a small, but complete, expensive-looking bathroom. The furniture of the suite consisted further of a heavy desk and a matching chair, all intricately carved. There were a few quills and an ink-pot on the desk and a small heap of clean sheets of parchment; a 200-year old edition of the Bible and a heavy silver chandelier with three huge, almost a foot tall candles completed the picture. The first evening he realized in horror that the candles lit themselves as it became darker outside and the curtains drew themselves in front of the window.

He was surprised to find a small altar in the room as well. The ancient-looking four-poster bed with impeccably clean, crisply ironed bedlinen almost gave him a heart attack the next morning after his arrival; as he was eating his quite delicious breakfast appearing out of thin air on the desk, he saw from the corner of his eye the pillow beaten up by some unseen force and the covers arranging themselves on the bed. Going pale and quickly crossing himself, he muttered a few Exorcism formulae, but during these days he more or less got used to these strange events. Food appeared on the desk five times a day; as soon as he stood from the desk, the remains disappeared, but a decanter of orange juice and another one of clean water, both mysteriously always remaining full and chilled, stayed at his disposal.

All in all, a luxury prison, mused His Holiness, for a prison it was, it must have been. Only, he hadn't the faintest clue as to where he was, how he got here, and more importantly, why he was here. The Vatican Intelligence, as Colonel Schiavone debriefed him every morning at 9:30 sharp, had no information on any suspicious activities targeting the Pope, and if they didn't have this information, it most certainly meant it was as good as nonexistent.

Having finished his breakfast on the morning of the fourth day of his imprisonment, the Pope said a short prayer, thanking for the food when the voice speaking in slightly accented, otherwise impeccable Italian, seemingly coming from nowhere, startled him.

"Good morning, Your Holiness. I hope I didn't disturb your breakfast or your prayer and I sincerely hope you're enjoying your stay so far in my little corner of the world."

"Who are you and what is it that you want from me?" Rising from his chair, the Pope switched to his native Florentine, the very same, beautifully melodic dialect the voice had addressed him.

"I can imagine, Your Holiness, that you must be having dozens of questions, but I must ask for your patience, at least until tonight. Rest assured, I have no intentions of harming you whatsoever, your person is far more valuable than that."

"But who... why..." the Pope was at a loss for words. The bodiless voice became drier, somewhat impatient. "Like I said, Sir, all in due time. Tonight at seven o'clock sharp I'm giving a small reception and I'm honoured to have you as one of my guests."

The Pope thought he must have gone mad. "Wait a second! One of your guests?" He raised his voice, as always, when he was getting agitated. "Who else is here? I demand an answer immediately!"

"At seven o'clock, Sir. You will get an answer to all of your questions, I promise. Have a good day!" The voice died off and no matter how long the Pope had waited, it never spoke again. Huffing in annoyance, he decided to wait – what else could he do? - until the evening and, randomly picking a thick folio from the bookshelf, he pulled an armchair in front of the window and dove into the text, a rare, richly illustrated edition of Dante Aligheri's La Divina Commedia.

** ** **

Somewhere very far away, at the same time rather close really, agent Sarrazano was chewing at her lips, as always, when she was agitated. Ever since the disappearance of the President and the Vice President, the office was in the highest state of readiness; security was doubled, gone were the coffee breaks and jokes and smoke pauses and on top of all this, Bernie and Brian were grumpier than usual.

The most frustrating of all, however, was the lack of progress the Triplet were booking on their investigation. All this time, they were unable to find anything, not even the tiniest bit of information that would bring them closer to the solution of these mysterious disappearances.

Lee hadn't had the chance to explain her theory to Bernie yet. She had gone through those bits of information several times, and the more time she was spending on them, the more convinced she was getting. As she was sitting at her desk in the Office, with all the evidence laying here, she suddenly felt it stupid and inappropriate to delay this discussion a second further and she made her decision. Arranging her papers in the file, she grabbed her laptop and resolutely stood up. Drawing a sharp breath, she walked to Bernie's door, trying to make her steps look steady as she felt those coming few moments might define her career with the Office forever. Upon reaching the door, she knocked and impatiently waited for the answer.

"Who is it?" Bernie's muffled voice barked from inside.

"It's agent Sarrazano, Sir," Lee answered, hoping that her voice wouldn't fail her at this point. "I wonder if you have a few moments for me."

The door opened without further questioning - Lee knew Bernie had a button under his desk to open it remotely - and she stepped inside, trying to look as determined from the outside as she was from the inside.

Raising his head from his monitor, Bernie sent a friendly smile at his inferior. "Take a seat, Lana. What can I do for you?"

"Sir," started the girl somewhat timidly, "you remember I called you about that article the evening the President disappeared? The article about the Nasdaq and NYSE heads?"

Bernie measured the girl with a disapproving glance. Putting his fingers together, he thought for a while before answering. "Yes, _agent Sarrazano,_" the girl couldn't miss the change in his voice, "I do remember you having called me on that issue. I think I was quite obvious and straightforward in my answer. What is it that makes you still spend your time on that, when your own investigation is not progressing?"

"Sir, I can't tell it in two words, but I feel there's a connection between our two disappearances and that article. May I?" Not even waiting for an answer, she already opened up her laptop and brought up the schematics she had drawn, scattering her notes on her superior's desk. Scowling from annoyance, Bernie watched her, as she, more and more self-conscious, explained her findings, however his annoyance on the run changed into rapt attention as he started following the girl's clear logic. When she finished her tale and just stood there, expectantly looking into his face for any reaction, her breast excitedly rising and falling, there was a minute of silence in the office. Then Bernie reached for his phone and slowly dialed a four-digit number, carefully examining the girl's flushed face.

"An internal extension," Lee mused and silently wished she wouldn't have screwed it up, but her fear changed into excitement when the call was answered.

"Jackson listening," filtered the mechanical voice. _The Kappa Squad leader!_ Lee inwardly cried with excitement. _They are investigating the other two disappearances! I haven't blown it!_


	7. Chapter 7

Half an hour later, Lee sat back at her table. Her cheeks still flushed and breathing uneven, she was, however, satisfied with herself. She managed to establish a tiny, nevertheless possible connection between the disappearance of the religious leaders and the financial gurus and, more importantly, both Bernie and Jackson seemed to be receptive to her ideas.

The pile of documents on her desk doubled in the meantime; she had received a full copy of the file on the "NASDAQ & NYSE" case as Jackson put it; moreover, she got permission to conduct any additional investigations she might see fit as well as question any possible witnesses. Her flight to New York was due in three hours; she barely had the time to drive home, grab a quick shower, and pack the most necessary items she might need for a few days. With a bit of luck she could be on the airport in ninety minutes, she mused, as she, barely being able to lift her suddenly heavy suitcase packed with her paperwork, laptop and communication equipment, made her way towards the exit, on her way collecting a few jealous high fives from Jackie and Christie and saying her goodbyes to them. That should leave her enough time to grab a quick bite and a coffee and board her plane just on time.

None of her plans were bound to happen, however. At this time of the day traffic was not too bad, so she would have made it home in half an hour, were it not for the blown left front tyre less than a mile from home. Resting her head against the steering wheel, she cursed out loud in English and broken Italian - her only inheritance from her paternal grandfather Luigi Sarrazano, a Neapolitan baker, who came over to the States in 1918 with a bullet in his left thigh to start a new life here, after his family has been wiped out in the war.

Carefully weighing her options, she locked the car and, on the run calling the towing company, made her way to the small grocery store run by an elderly Chinese couple, where she used to do her daily shopping. Leaving the car keys with Mrs. Chang and giving the address of the shop to the towing company, she thankfully accepted the fortune cookie Mrs. Chang had offered to her and quickly unwrapped it, carefully breaking the cookie. Like all Italians, Lee was extremely superstitious and couldn't wait to see what was written on the small piece of paper inside.

However, the paper contained two Chinese characters, without an explanation, and Lee questioningly raised her head, wordlessly handing it over to Mrs. Chang. The shopkeeper examined the writing, bringing it close to her myoptic eyes. Suddenly, her wrinkled face wrought into a huge smile.

"Big, fat luck, _meimei_," she pronounced proudly in her stammering voice. "Big, fat luck!"

Five minutes later, when the taxi she had ordered braked abruptly, a mere few inches from her legs, effectively covering her from top to toe with the remnants of the heavy rainfall last night, Agent Sarrazano did want to put a question mark behind this.

* * *

At first Lee didn't see the huge man at the exit gate holding a board with her name on it. Only when she heard a heavy bass calling out her name did she stop on her way, looking around for the source of the voice. Turning around, her eyes saw a broad chest clothed into a white shirt, a dark-blue jacket and a matching colour tie. Somewhere a good fifteen inches above her head, the body ended in a man's head, in his mid-fifties probably, framed by already greying hair cut the military way. The tanned face, decorated by quite a few deep wrinkles, smiled at the startled girl and the mouth spoke in the same friendly bass.

"You must be agent Sarrazano, right? I'm sorry for being late, I planned to pick you up straight from the plane, but got caught up in a traffic jam on my way."  
Still unable to speak, Lee machinally offered her hand and the giant friendly, gently shook it, with the same broad smile on his face.

"My name is George Whispering Ghost and I'm leading the investigation on the two disappearances you're so concerned with. Let me buy you a real coffee instead of that instant crap you can get at the precinct and we can fill in each other before we get back into town."

"Okay, Mr. Whispering Ghost... or should I call you simply 'lieutenant'?" Lee was quite unsure how to address her new partner and the man must have felt her hesitation at once.

"Simply George would do quite well," he reached for the girl's small travel case.

"In that case, I'd prefer you call me Lee." Sarrazano smiled back at the Native American; for some unknown reason, once her initial shock at the plain sight of the almost 7-ft tall, 300-pounds detective wore off, she took an instant liking to the man. "My day couldn't have been crappier so far so some distraction in the form of a Double Latte is more than welcome."

* * *

Having sipped a few times from her Starbucks, Lee leaned back in her chair. Even in sitting position, George was almost a foot taller, so she had to raise her head if she wanted to look him into the face.

"Does your name mean anything... special, George?" she inquired friendly, fearing that she might hurt her new partner with the question.

"Every Native American name means something," the man started slowly, contemplating about the answer. "When I was three, I had a dream one night. My great-grandfather, Red Cloud, who had passed away a week before, appeared to me in my dream and whispered into my ears that he had a vision about me becoming a medicine man. Next day I told my grandfather about my dream and he got all ecstatic about it. He said I had been chosen to do great things in my life and gave me this name."

"May I ask you which tribe you're from? Navajo? Apache?"

"Not quite close, Lee, not quite close. I'm from the Apsaalooke tribe which you may probably know as 'Crow'." Bitterly laughing, George folded his arms on his chest. "I might just as well be the very first of my tribe with a high school diploma since the early seventies when Bob White Horse, the quarterback of the Grizzlies got his scholarship with the Montana State University. See, nothing has changed these past decades. Our people either are unemployed and drown themselves in alcohol and die before they're forty or put on our national costumes and dance our dances before the tourists AND in the evening drown themselves in alcohol and die before they're forty."

Shaking her head in disbelief, Lee cast a sympathetic glance at the man. "How did you manage to get out of there?"

"I signed up for 'Nam as an eighteen-year old, naive boy. I was a rather good shooter - I've had my own gun since I was six and it wasn't only hanging on the wall - and got promoted quite soon; when I demobilized in '79, I was already First Sergeant," nodded George, draining his cup. "See how strange it goes? I should be healing people as a medicine man and not killing them from 1000 yards with a sniper rifle."

Both went silent for a moment, then George continued. "Thanks to my impeccable state of service, I got a scholarship at MSU and graduated with an Economy major. See, I wanted to help my people to get out of that abyss the white people had thrown us into. No offense meant, Lee," he apologetically smiled at the girl.

"None taken, George," she returned his friendly gesture.

Nodding the waitress for a refill, the Crow mused for a while before he resumed talking. Lee thought the detective was contemplating whether he should tell her a certain thing and indeed, her intuition proved right.

"Two years later, three rednecks broke into one of the homes in Crow County and raped and killed a widowed woman and her 15-year old daughter. They were my neighbours. When I learned what happened, I caught those animals one by one, explained them a few things in a simple language, threw them, tied and gagged, into their own pickup which I parked in front of the police post." He lowered his head as if in shame, but Lee's gentle hand, placed under his chin, forced it up again. Her eyes told him: "you've done the right thing."

Acknowledging her with a barely perceptible nod, he sighed heavily, before continuing. "They were released from the hospital a month later without even being charged. The next day I signed up for the police academy."

Looking at those huge hands, Lee couldn't help but think that those three bastards should be praising God for getting away with only a month of hospital treatment for what they'd done, but, on second thought, she considered it wise not to voice her opinion.

"Anyway," George threw a twenty-dollar note on the table," we're not here to discuss my life. Let's see how's our investigation standing."

* * *

"Impressive thinking," the man shook his head fifteen minutes and another Starbucks refill later. Their table, with the disorderly mess of documents scattered on top, now strongly reminded Lee's own apartment, but the young detective felt considerably better than anytime since the start of her investigation. Something whispered into her ears that she was on the right track and her new partner just confirmed it again.

"I would have never made that connection between the two PA-s, but it's definitely there." George hopefully raised his mug, sadly realizing the fact that it was empty. Casting a longing look at the counter, he shook his head again. "Tempting as it may sound, I have to cut myself short on caffeine. A detective's life is no health insurance, but I've been managing to remain in one piece until now and I don't want to die from coffee poisoning."

He helped her order her documents and handed her over the rather thick stack of papers, barely able to suppress a smile seeing more than one empty chocolate wraps between the documents bearing the red "Top Secret" stamp across. Lee let him listen to the voice transcripts she'd made on her Ipod, offering him her pink ear-buds that made him burst out in uncontrollable laughter, startling more than a few Starbucks visitors.

"Please, Lee, just don't mention it to my colleagues," George wiped his eyes, taking a few deep breaths to come by. "I would never be able to come to the precinct with a straight face after that!" Indeed, the tiny pink earphones made quite a ridiculous sight in the ears of the seven-foot giant and she could clearly imagine the amount of teasing the good man would have to face afterwards.

"It remains our dirty little secret," Lee winked at him, liking the man more and more by the minute. George grabbed the girl's overnight bag while she finished packing her attaché-case. Climbing off the high chair, she followed her new partner, making their way towards the parking lot. A few moments later they were already sitting in George's shiny new Dodge Nitro.

"Just got it delivered a week ago," the detective nodded sheepishly. "See, I don't fit into just about any car but a Humvee would have been a tad bit too much. I'm not much of a pickup man, I like to travel in style."

On their way to the precinct, they enjoyed small talk, until Lee suddenly turned to the lieutenant, casting a serious look at him. "George, would it be a big detour if we went to the mullah's apartment first and then checked the two financial gurus' place? I've seen the rabbi's house and there is this small devil in the back of my head whispering into my ears that whatever the connection between these four, I - we - should be able to find it there, in one of those places." She waited a few moments and, when her partner remained silent, she scoffed irritatedly. "I knew I was talking rubbish, George, but it was worth a try."

"Don't say that, Lee," George carefully checked the rear-view mirror before turning left. "Intuition is one of the strongest weapons of a detective. It may save your ass when your logic fails." Stopping at the traffic light, he sent an encouraging smile at his new partner. "I know you're still a freshman and please don't take it as an insult. After twenty years out here one tends to think too much; you have the advantage of being able to feel things. Don't let go of it. If you feel the truth is out there, it definitely is, you just have to find it."

Smiling at the somewhat lame X-Files analogy, Lee silently digested the man's words while the car crossed the Verrazzano Bridge. "Look, George, there's no logical explanation, at least I haven't been able to find one yet. There's simply too much coincidence in the behaviour of those two. I'm trying not to look ridiculous here, mind you, but the best word I can find is that they were acting as if brain-washed, hypnotized."

"At least it's what the symptoms make you think," George acknowledged briefly, parking the car a few minutes later at an apartment block on the riverfront. Rummaging in his pockets, he murmured a few impatient words in an unknown to Lee language full of throaty syllables. Finally, fishing out a key from his trouser pocket, he held it victoriously before Lee's face. "I knew I had it somewhere," he explained, "although, according to the books, key evidence..." they both laughed at the pun, "key evidence is not to be taken outside the precinct other than in exceptional situation."

Handing over the key to Lee, the giant smiled. "And now, by the power given to me by my rank of an old, coffee-addicted police lieutenant, I baptize thee 'Exceptional Situation'. Ladies first." Lee's ringing laughter followed him as he got out of the car and went to the passenger's side to help her get out as well.  
Hearing muffled steps from the Mullah's apartment, George briefly reached under his jacket. His fingers touched the metal of his .358 Colt, his best mate of the past twenty years, giving him a reassuring feeling. The next moment, however, the unmistakable sound of a vacuum cleaner emerged from behind the door and George slowly let out the breath he was holding.

The small intermezzo didn't skip Lee's attention. "Peaky or suspicious?"

"Let's put it this way: thinking a few steps ahead," George rang the bell, his eyes narrowing the slightest bit. No answer came, however; whoever might have been in the apartment, couldn't possibly hear the bell because of the noise the vacuum cleaner was making.

Quickly making up his mind, Lee inserted the key into the lock and turned it around. George's hand stopped her from entering first. "'Ladies first' ends here, for the time being."

Fatima, the mullah's housekeeper was cleaning the study so she couldn't see when the two entered the apartment, the sound of their steps muffled by the howling of the vacuum cleaner. Lee stepped in front of her, almost causing a minor heart attack to the good woman.

Letting go of the tube and pressing both her hands at her chest, Fatima went dead pale. Lee apologetically smiled at her and produced her badge.

"Lieutenant Sarrazano and Lieutenant... Cloud," she introduced themselves in a soft voice, switching off the vacuum. "I'm really sorry for having frightened you; we rang first but you didn't hear it."

"What can I do for you, officers?" Fatima offered them a seat at the journal table and disappearing in the kitchen. Plopping down onto the soft couch - the poor piece of furniture loudly objecting to being abused by George's three hundred pounds - the two agents thankfully accepted the hot apple tea she served.

"My colleague from Washington," George took word over, "is working on three similar cases of disappearance and she wanted to take a good look at the premises, if you don't mind."

"Why would I mind if it can help to bring mullah Kareem back, masa Allah?" Fatima's deep, melodic voice broke and she wiped her eyes. "I just simply can't put it out of my mind; who would have profited from kidnapping him?" Distracted, her almost perfect English became heavily accented.

Lee approvingly measured the other woman with her eyes. Why is that so that if two completely strange women get together in the same room, after two minutes it's either enemies or friends for life?

"She is beautiful, and in unrequited love with the mullah," she concluded, listening to her female instincts. "This tea is delicious," she continued in her normal voice, downing the last few drops of the sweet drink, only to have her tiny glass refilled the same instant. "Off the records, just two girls together, tell me about the mullah, Fatima. What is he like? What does he precisely do? Do you think he might have enemies? I know you've been asked the same questions a few times, but don't worry, there are no wrong answers here."

George rose, questioningly glancing at the two women. Fatima silently nodded her agreement, answering his unspoken question. The lieutenant disappeared in the other room, and Fatima started her tale. Taking off her hijaab, she shook her gorgeous hair free from its restraints, completely unaware of Lee's jealous look. Nervously wringing her hands, in a few simple sentences she told the young agent about her boss in her hushed voice and Lee listened intently, making mental notes, every now and then casting a reassuring glance at the other woman.

Loudly sniffing, Fatima went silent and Lee suddenly felt very sorry for her. Reaching for her two hands, she reassuringly squeezed them. "Don't worry, Fatima, we will do everything we can to find Kareem and bring him back in one peace, and that's a promise." The housekeeper nervously chewed on her lower lip, acknowledging the said with a barely visible nod. Only the glance in the agent's eyes told her that her secret would be safe with Lee and she, finally, pulled her mouth into a barely visible smile.

"I wish I could love someone like this, even unrequited," mused Lee, suddenly feeling very sorry for herself. She had no boyfriend ever since she had graduated and apart from a few catastrophic dates earlier this year the only male company she had were her colleagues at the office, but no love interests.

"Do you mind if I look around a bit?" she smiled at the beauty, although the question was rather obsolete, as she had already suspected.

"Go ahead, agent, do what you need to do," Fatima nodded, loudly blowing her nose into a hand embroidered handkerchief and cleaning the table. "Anything that would bring him back to me," Lee mentally finished her sentence.

Standing up, the young agent joined her partner in the other room. From respect to the presence of the housekeeper, they didn't touch personal belongings, didn't rummage in cupboards, drawers and shelves. The mullah's agenda and official paperwork, forming possible evidence, had already been transferred over to the precinct anyway so Lee could read them at her ease; she was more interested in the place itself to see how the kidnapping might have taken place. Checking the entrance door - all intact, the small security camera - perfectly functioning, the panel of the door alarm system - all fingerprints taken ages ago, she couldn't find anything suspicious. Returning to the study, she stared out of the window, curiously watching the river Manhattan, while her brains were making over-hours, trying to order facts, suspicions and thoughts into a whole picture.

The housekeeper, in the meantime, switched on the vacuum cleaner again, apologetically smiling at the young agent. Waving friendly at the other woman, Lee immersed into her thoughts again, only to be distracted by the sudden change in the howling of the vacuum that suddenly started singing on a higher tone. Fatima switched it off, trying to locate the object that had been obstructing the airflow.

It was a plain white business card sticking onto the intake and she handed it over to Lee. "It might have fallen out of Kareem's Rolodex."

Lee made no notice of her using her boss' first name, only smiled understandingly. Absent-mindedly pocketing the business card, without even taking a look at it, she gently placed her hand on the woman's shoulder. "Don't worry, Fatima. I will bring him back home to you." She firmly believed it at that point, even if she hadn't the faintest idea how precisely she would fulfil her promise.


	8. Chapter 8

"Did you pick up anything interesting?" Toasting with Lee, George took a comfortable sip from his Coke, then put the can in the cup holder and engaged 'D' on the gearbox.

"Nothing special, if not taking into account the fact that the housekeeper is madly in love with the mullah who, on the other hand, seems completely oblivious to this simple fact." Massaging her aching temples – the telltale sign of her dangerously low caffeine level – Lee closed her eyes, trying to order her thoughts again.

"You been here, George, when his disappearance was reported, right?" Nodding affirmatively, the lieutenant rather comically scratched his nose. "Yeah, the first thing that came to my mind was how strange all this looked. No signs of life, no signs of struggle or fight, as if the mullah had never been here. I even started asking myself whether or not he had simply taken an evening walk and never came back, but later I interviewed the housekeeper. Either she was honest or the best actress I'd ever seen, but she managed to convince me that the mullah must have been home at that time."

Suddenly, he slapped himself on the forehead. "Stupid me! The day the mullah's disappearance was reported, we had to have someone from the vendor that produced his door lock system come and open it because of the code and the housekeeper was nowhere to be found. Once inside, the guy connected his laptop to the system and saw in the logfiles that the door was locked from inside by pressing the appropriate button." Lee nodded; having a certain aptitude to new technologies, she took a very thorough look at the hypermodern alarm system herself, not even an hour ago.

"The technician thought it might have been a software glitch; well, I'm still of the same opinion," George continued his tale. "We tried to simulate different scenarios but we couldn't get the door locked from the inside stepping outside."

Lee emitted a frustrated sight. This was going nowhere and getting them nowhere. The mullah couldn't have possibly evaporated from his apartment, that's for sure, and she was sure the man had no Spiderman genome to take his leave via the window on the seventh floor. She voiced her opinion to the lieutenant in a somewhat edgy voice, confirming his thoughts about the possibility of a glitch in the lock.

"Now where?" George inquired patiently, taking another sip of his Coke.

"Listen, partner," Lee smiled sheepishly, "I'm really sorry for abusing your time and ordering you around like a cabby, but I'd still prefer to see those two other places first before we get into the precinct."

George looked at the girl with badly disguised interest. Slowly filtering the words through his teeth, he spoke. "I love the Apple. I never thought I would say that, but I do. It's alive, it's breathing, even if it's most probably the Biblical Sodom and Gomorrah itself. And, with regards to your little concern here, a detective here spends 80% of his time on the streets, pretty much like in those cheap Hollywood movies, so no problem at all. You have a hotel booked yet?"

"Yeah, just in case, the Pennsylvania," Lee nodded affirmatively. The man thought for a while, then pulled his face into a smile. "Brilliant. Why don't we check you in then first and drop your baggage, then we go to see the NYSE chef's place. After that, but only if you want to, we could eat something together."

"I would love that, George." Lee started liking this man more and more. "But I insist on sharing the bill."

"Won't do, Missus," George raised his huge hand. "I don't get the chance very often to take out young and attractive ladies for dinner, so it's my day. Next time I'm in DC, you may take me out." He wasn't flirting, wasn't hitting on her, it just felt they had been friends for ages even if they'd known each other for a few hours only.

"Often in DC?" Lee inquired.

George burst out in roaring laughter. "Never been in my life."

Understanding that she'd been royally had, Lee joined him until her sides started to hurt. "Right-o, Chef, I'll hold you to your word. Don't you have other attractive females to take out for dinner instead of me?"

"Who would date an old cop like me?" George shooed away the question with a tint of bitterness in his voice.

"Another cop maybe?" Lee drew her shoulders.

George pulled over at the hotel entrance and switched off the engine. "Lee, in those movies no cop lives a happy family life, and in reality it's no different either. No woman can really cope with the constant danger lurking around, day by day, year by year, that her husband quite possibly will not return home in the evening. With two cops in the family, it's just double the chance. Believe me, it's good this way." After a short, uneasy pause, he added, "Come on, let's get going. I'll be waiting for you downstairs in the lobby."

* * *

Twenty minutes later they were sitting in the car again, but not before they had refilled their caffeine level by grabbing a quick one in the restaurant. The Nitro drove off with screeching tyres and Lee, feeling whole again, happily clapped in her hands. "So, George, tell me about this Goldman guy."

"I can't tell you much more that you probably already know," the friendly bass spoke slowly. "I haven't been involved in that one; I was at the Nasdaq chef's place at that time. So I daresay I'm just as curious as you are. I took the artistic freedom and made some calls while you were upstairs; Mrs. Goldman is expecting us."

"I won't take long, I promise, I just... just can't explain what I'm looking for. All these disappearances just don't fit, and then we have the President and his wife, the Chinese First Secretary, the Russian President and the UK Prime Minister... let's say 80 per cent of the world's economy. Maybe 90." Her face went dark as she remembered that night when Bernie woke her, and even darker, when she finished her train of thoughts.

"George," her voice broke, "I'm afraid. It's something big I've gotten into, a worldwide conspiracy of some kind, and it's me who has to solve a part of this puzzle."

Her hand disappeared in the huge palm of the lieutenant, who gently, reassuringly squeezed it as if it were a rare, hand-crafted Eastern egg. "Lee, it's big. I mean, BIG. I never made those connections you just have, and you must be right, it's no god-damned coincidence. It scares the crap out of me what would happen if some wannabe dictator grabbed the power in Moscow and sent a few warheads on a few US cities, you know, like a warning. Within a week or two, there would be no living soul on Earth. On the other hand, I don't think that would happen. No man is that stupid on Earth, even Kim Jong-Il." Seeing Lee's questioning look, he elaborated further. "The North-Korean President."

Lee flushed red from shame, she should have known. The man had recently been daily news due to his nuclear games with the rest of the world and one of his scarce, provocative public appearances on the 38th parallel.

"What puzzles me most," continued George, "is how the kidnapper or kidnappers – because I'm sure there must have been more than one – managed to get past the Camp David security, past the cameras and heat detectors, take four people with them and simply evaporate. Nobody saw nothing, heard nothing, the guards were on their posts, awake and sober. Nothing on the cameras, the audio recordings. So yes, it IS big, it IS fearful, and it IS us who have to solve the riddle."

Lee, now somewhat pale, feverishly squeezed the man's hand. "George, have you ever been in a situation like this? A situation you saw no escape from at all? What did you do?"

"Well," the lieutenant cleared his throat, musing a few seconds over the question, "I've seen 'Nam and came back to tell my tale and I would have thought that I'd already seen everything. I was mistaken, so it seems. I've been in deep shit, seen really bad things, seen people die – good people – but nothing similar to this. We have to do our job and find those people, everything else is unimportant. One thing is sure, I'll help you with everything I can and I have your back."

"And so I have yours," Lee reached up and kissed the man, old enough to be her father, on his cheek. "Thank you, George," she flushed prettily, "I needed that. I got somewhat lost."

The lieutenant understandingly smiled at the young agent, although he was somewhat shocked by her intimate gesture. "Believe me, I know all about it. On my first assignment as a cop I was so nervous that I vomited all over the shiny car of the chief commander." Looking at her partner, Lee couldn't picture herself that this gentle giant knew the meaning of the word "nervous" at all. A few minutes later, the car stopped in a chique suburb in front of an exquisite fence and she forgot all her doubts, concentrating only on the immense task that awaited her.


	9. Chapter 9

The president of the United States was nervously fidgeting with the tie his wife had chosen for the evening. Normally a calm and concentrated person, always in perfect control of his thoughts and deeds, Robert Trelawney III had been only a vague shadow of himself ever since the mysterious man appeared in his residence at Camp David in the middle of the night and thrust that velvet cord into his hand.

Having spent more than a week in his luxury prison, President Trelawney was worried. Not about his own fate or his wife, he was more wondering whether the relatively young and inexperienced vice-president Brody would cope with his duties. Little did he know then that Brody was, just like him, enjoying the 'hospitality' of this 'luxury bird cage' as his wife put it the second day.

They weren't treated badly, in fact, they were treated with respect; all their needs were looked after even if they hadn't seen a living soul the whole week, until the voice spoke to them this morning. Trelawney was hundred percent sure it belonged to the same man that kidnapped them; he had a certain aptitude for languages and a good ear and picked out the barely audible accent at once.

Now, at a quarter to seven in the evening, he felt he would get an answer to all questions bothering him at least the voice had promised it, and sighed deeply. His wife was already fully dressed and now was applying the finishing touches to her make-up and he lovingly admired her sleek figure in the simple yet gorgeous long-sleeved cocktail dress she had picked to wear for the occasion. Aged 51, many wouldn't give her more than 42, only a few wrinkles around her eyes and a few greying locks in her reddish brown hair, Alicia Trelawney cast a last glance at herself in the Venetian mirror and pouched her red lips in a Marilyn Monroe-ish gesture. Giving her a loud strawberry, Robert longingly cupped her youthful bum through the thin fabric of her dress.

"You drive me mad, woman," he drew her closer, crushing his lips on hers again.

"You're ruining my dress, Monsieur," Alicia objected meekly, her eyes glistering with desire.

"That one, I can help," her husband replied seductively, lightly pulling up her dress until his warm hand made contact with the impeccably tight skin the result of many, many hours of sweating in the White House fitness room on her thigh.

The door lock, however, silently clicked and both turned around. Covering his wife with his own body, the President's muscles and nerves tensed in expectation of what was to come. The door opened and a tiny creature entered the room. Not higher than three feet, it had incredibly long ears and eyes the size of a saucer and Alicia couldn't suppress a frightened shriek.

The creature briefly curtseyed and spoke up in acceptable English. "Good evening, Master and Mistress. I is yours personal elf for this evening. Please follows me."

Once her initial shock wore off, Alicia peeked out from behind her husband's back. On second thought, she found the elf more comical than frightening; she found him slightly resembling Yoda instead. "Where are you taking us?"

"I is ordered to takes yous to the reception that my Master gives to his guests tonight," the ancient elf explained, patiently waiting.

The President reassuringly squeezed his wife's hand, now somewhat cold and still slightly trembling. "In that case, elf, please lead on." Bound by his oath, he couldn't let it slip, even to his wife, that from the appearance of the elf he understood at once they were held captive in a Wizarding place. The shabby old man that every now and then stepped out of his fireplace to join a cabinet meeting or simply to discuss one or another political event, titling himself 'Minister of Magic', still crept him out; on the other hand, the war in England ended not even a decade ago and it was a reassuring feeling that Hieronymus Bricks knew perfectly what he was doing.

As it turned out, the room they had been held captive was the last one in a long corridor; as they walked it, they saw a few similar doors, now all closed. The President's mind registered this simple fact. Could it be possible that there are more of us? Obviously, it could; the voice this morning said clearly: 'I will explain everything to y'all', even perfectly mimicking the somewhat cheesy dialect of his own home state.

Halfway through the corridor, the elf clicked with his finger, opening a heavy double door leading them to another, shorter and wider corridor, on the other end a similar door blocking the way. The elf stopped and raised his saucer eyes to meet theirs. "I is wishing yous a very pleasant evening." Opening the door, he stepped aside, letting his guests enter first, then, invisibly following them, silently closed the door and called out in a magically enhance voice.

"Ladies and gentlemens, the President and First Lady of the United States of America!"

The room they had arrived was nothing like they would have expected. It had a circular shape, a good 50-60 feet in diameter, its centre occupied by a huge, intricately carved, circular mahogany table. Heavy curtains covered what the President suspected to be a enormous window of some kind and there hung a heavy crystal chandelier from the high ceiling, maybe twenty, twenty-five feet high, exactly above the centre of the table.

There were about twenty chairs around the table, all but one occupied by now, the other guests excitedly, lividly conversating in small groups of twos and threes. Behind most chairs stood a patiently waiting elf. As his eyes got used to the sight, the President started recognizing all those familiar faces and he went dead pale. What is going on here?

"Mr. President!"

Trelawney immediately recognized the somewhat singing Maryland baritone of Jeff Brody, his right hand, flanked by his 'cheerleader', at least this is how Alicia characterized the Vice President' wife, Kimberly, at their first ever meeting. He didn't like Brody himself and was of a very low opinion about the man's political skills, but he had good connections and it helped them both enormously during the elections to have the back of the strong industrial lobby financing their campaign. The Reps tried every method to discredit these connections to no avail; there was not a single cent Trelawney had been unable to account for and finally booked a comfortable victory even in his home state, for decades a Republican stronghold.

The President forced an impeccable Hollywood smile on his face and reached out with his right hand.

"Enjoying your luxury stay, Jeff? Kim, you look gorgeous tonight!" Brody's handshake was firm and manly - fifteen years in the ring most certainly left their stamp on the former US welterweight champion but when Kim expectantly held out her cheeks, bearing the signs of abusing her makeup, Trelawney almost threw up. Quickly pecking her cheeks, careful so that his lips wouldn't linger too long on her skin, he stepped back one step.

"How long have you been held here?" the President inquired sharply, measuring the other faces present, with horror recognizing his Russian, English and Chinese counterpart.

"Ever since the night you received the Chinese First Secretary in Camp David, Bob," Brody answered promptly. "We were taken from our bedroom maybe an hour after we went to bed."

The President shared an understanding look with his wife. "Half an hour after us, then. Have you tried your cell phone ever since to contact Marcia?"

"Nope, no coverage here. Where do you think we can be?"

"Seems like a warm place, at least it's what I understood looking out from our balcony. Not the North Pole, in any case. Somewhere in the Caribbean maybe," the President mused, narrowing his steel blue eyes. "You know what, Jeff? Let's just leave our adorable ladies to their 'ladies' stuff' and walk around and shake hands with the others, shall we?"

"I will castrate you for this," his wife mouthed behind Jeff's back, casting a murderous glance at him. Placing an arm on the Vice President's shoulder, he directed him away from the women, out of reach of their reach. "I don't know what's happening, Jeff," he whispered. "75 per cent of the world's power is in this very room and this stinks prime time. It seems a coordinated attack to destabilize the world, politically and financially. Us, the Russians, the split-eyes, the British," he flexed his fingers while counting. "The two biggest financial institutions on Earth," he pointed to Goldman and Robertson.

"They didn't even spare the religious leaders," nodded Jeff, pointing to the Pope, engaged into casual small talk with the British Prime Minister, something that until very recently would have been unheard of.

"Can I count on you, Jeff?" Trelawney forcefully grabbed the other man's shoulders. "Your brains and your fist, if need be?"

"But of course," Brody answered without thinking. "Have I ever failed you, Bob?"

"Only when your whore of a wife got piss drunk on the French Prime Minister's New Year's reception, making a complete fool of you, me, the whole country, my dear boy," Trelawney thought to himself, but he thought it wiser not to voice his opinion. "Never, Jeff, and I really appreciate your support."

"My appreciation, however, will be thankfully limited to arranging that position in the Board of Directors of General Motors your brother has been dreaming of for the past two years," he smirked, making his way towards the Pope, his inferior a step behind him.

A practising Catholic, President Trelawney was just about to kneel before the head of the Roman Catholic Church and kiss the massive golden ring, the symbol of his power, when the Pope stood and offered his right hand.

"No need for ceremony, Mr. President, we are not at the Vatican," he said simply, shaking the other man's hand with a surprising strength. "Let's drink something, shall we?" The elf silently standing behind the Pope's chair now stepped ahead, expectantly raising his eyes towards the elderly man.

"Could we have two glasses of that marvellous Chianti?" the Pope inquired, smiling friendly at the small creature.

"Most certainly, Master," the elf beamed. "Yous drinks will be right with yous." He clapped with his right hand and out of the blue a small silver tray appeared in front of him, seemingly hanging in mid air. Two exquisitely crafted crystal glasses filled with red wine stood on the tray and the elf handed over one to the Pope, the second one to the President.

"Thank you, my child," the Pope friendly acknowledged the elf and raised his glass towards the President.

"Your health, Holy Father," Trelawney toasted and held the glass to his lips. Taking a delighted sip of the ruby red wine, he turned to the elderly man. "What do you make of all this, Monsignore?"

The Pope slowly set his glass on the table. "When I, the very first time in my life, met a wizard, the Special Advisor to John Paul I, it almost ruined all my belief. The good man lit his cigar by making fire out of nowhere and I thought it was Satan's work, a test God had sent upon us to see how strong our belief really was. I also have a wizard among my advisors now, ever since He chose me to be His ambassador on Earth, and had to adjust my opinion. We are all God's creatures, human, wizard or elf and we all have our powers and our predestination."

"And this illustrious company here, Holy Father? That concerns me more at this point, with all respect," he cut off somewhat abruptly.

Monsignore Montebello - it had been five years since someone addressed him by his civilian name - put his fingers together and made a wry grimace. "I should now be saying that I know nothing about politics in general and the Church I'm representing stands above politics, but that would be a lie. Everybody knows the Vatican has been involved in every major political event in the past five hundred years. All this situation here," he pointed around with a wide, theatrical gesture, "may seem politics in the first place, but it's also about finances and religion. Here, in this very room," he looked seriously into the President's eyes, "is concentrated ninety per cent of the world's real political and financial power and we may call ourselves very lucky if we survive the night."

For a moment, the President stood perplexed, what didn't happen too often with this cum laude Harvard graduate known of his perfect, logical oratory skills. "I was estimating seventy five percent," he tried to joke, but the light phrase came somewhat forcedly.

"Well, Mr. President, you might have underestimated the Vatican then. To your health!"

Five minutes later, the President was still munching over the Pope's last words when he felt a discrete tap on his shoulder. Broadly smiling, Kevin McKeough, the Queen's Prime Minister, flanked by an unknown, middle-aged, black man, reached out with his right hand. "Hello Bob, I can't say I'm surprised to see you here."

Having spent the last sixty years of his life in London, his Irish accent was still clearly present, something he was immensely proud of. All Irish are, for that matter, Bob mused, but he was smiling honestly when he shook the offered hand. Then, his attention turned to the third man.

"I don't think you've met my Special Advisor, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mr. President," the Prime Minister introduced the two.

Kingsley's handshake was firm and manly, maybe too manly to Trelawney's liking. "How do you do, Mr. President," he spoke in a deep bass.

"Mr. Kingsley, nice to meet you," Trelawney nodded curtly. "From your position I assume you're a wizard, right? All of you folks in state service seem to title yourselves 'Special Advisors'. Are you that special?"

Kingsley burst out in laughter. "You are right, Mr. President. From that prospective, yes, I represent the British Ministry of Magic in Her Majesty's government."

The President cut it short. "If yo can do magic, you must be able to get us out of here as well." Kingsley, however, cooled down his enthusiasm pretty soon.

"I'm afraid, Mr. President, that I can't do too much without my wand. A wizard needs one to channel his magic through it. There are a few of us who can do wandless magic; my knowledge in this field is, however, pretty much limited. I'm able to levitate a small object, but to break out of here, through these wards, needs much more. Even with my wand, I wouldn't be able to remove them; it's a speciality of the so-called 'curse-breakers' and the one I could think of right now as the most appropriate one is peacefully snoring somewhere in Wales as we speak. So, Mr. President, I suggest that we wait."

"He's right, Bob," McKeough nodded. "Listening to Kingsley saved my life more than once so I suggest you do as he says."

Being one of the most powerful men on Earth, Trelawney didn't like the situation he'd been forced into for one bit. He pressed his lips together, only a feverishly pulsating nerve on the side of his neck the tell-tale sign of him being pissed.

"See you around,Kevin. I'm going back to my wife to save her from the hands of Barbie. Mr. Kingsley," he acknowledged the two men and walked back to his seat, on his way friendly greeting the Nasdaq chairman.

"Finally," Alicia venomously hissed into his ear. "What took you so long?"

"Tried to find a way to get us out of here," Trelawney snapped irritatedly, leading her away from the table. "That black guy is a wizard."

Having sworn to the Statute of Secrecy shortly after his inauguration, Trelawney felt only a slightest bit guilty for breaking his oath. However, desperate times called for desperate measures, he decided, it was the reason he had dropped the bomb.

Alicia's eyes grew the size of a saucer. "A wizard? You mean like the ones in the Harry Potter-book? Bob, you don't seem surprised at all," she chastised her husband. "And the elf! You... you knew it was for real." It was no question, rather a statement, and Trelawney silently nodded his agreement.

"I was sworn to secrecy," he said simply. "Come on, it's politics!" he barked, seeing the furious glance in his wife's eyes. "It's not some ballroom gossip one incidentally slips out in a half-drunk state, it's a much bigger thing than our whole fucking nuclear arsenal!"

It didn't happen too often that Trelawney raised his voice at his wife, therefore the woman instantly snapped shut. She was just about to apologize, when a gong chimed loudly somewhere above them, and a door opened on the opposite side of the wall. Through the door came a man with short, grey hair, piercing blue eyes, and, as he neared the table, he greeted his guests with a smile. His guests, rather his victims, however, instantly recognized their nightly visitor and jumped on their feet as one, all demanding explanation in one voice.

The man, however, raised his hand, silencing the room.

"I apologize for being late, Ladies and Gentlemen," he started in English, the Russian president frowning his brows in a desperate attempt to catch his words. Apologetically smiling, the man made a small gesture with his hand and Kuznetsov satisfiedly leaned back in his chair, courtesy of the Instant Translation charm the man had cast.

"I hope you didn't wait too long, after all, punctuality is a great asset. I hope you'd been well tended to by the elves and all your wishes had been fulfilled so far. So," the man satisfiedly clapped into his hand, "ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my simple home. I hope you will be enjoying your further stay as much as you've been enjoying it so far, after all, you'll be spending here the rest of your lives."

Again, loud rumour broke out at the table, and the man patiently waited a few minutes until he had their full attention.

"Until now, I failed to introduce myself, ladies and gentlemen, but I had my good reasons for that. It's time for me to correct my failure. My name is..." 


	10. Chapter 10

"_It all makes no sense. There's no such thing. People can't evaporate just like that."_

The ink was still fresh on the latest entry in Lee's small diary and she already felt sorry for having written it down. It wasn't in her job description to give herself over to desperation and she normally wasn't one to do so either. The results of her visits to the two crime scenes, or rather the lack thereof, were however starting to take their toll on her and she was slowly but surely getting frustrated. She saw the same at Camp David that night – she saw that there was nothing to be seen, and her visit to the Chief Rabbi's place a week earlier delivered the same negative results.

Flexing her fingers, she counted up the people that had gone missing these past few weeks. Eight people in the US alone, but something, a little black devil chewing her from the inside, immediately prompted her to add four more to this illustrious company.

Twelve persons at least, representing at least three quarters of the world's political, financial and religious powers combined together. The further she was thinking into this, the more frightened she got.

A few hours ago, before meeting George in the lobby of the hotel for diner, she made a call to Bernie via the scrambled line. Explaining her findings in a dry, official voice, trying to banish every emotion from her thoughts, Lee silently prayed her Squad Leader wasn't able to long-distance read her mind and was pleasantly surprised when she was rewarded with a few short words of appreciation at the end of her report.

"Well done, Lana," Bernie barked into the receiver and Lee instinctively felt he was satisfied with her. Having a clear, analytical way of thinking, she was able to find overlaps in things seemingly not connected, and she knew Bernie was of high opinion about her capabilities. Now she only had to demonstrate them in the practice and what would have been a better demonstration than finding the missing President and his wife, for example?

She knew, however, that she was far from solving this complex riddle, farther that she'd ever been; the more people added to the puzzle, the more improbable the solution seemed to her.

Hastily applying some eye-shadow – something she didn't do too often - she consulted her image in the mirror one last time before rushing down the stairs and joining George behind the bar who had just ordered his pint. She went for a glass of red wine and, when they drinks arrived, they moved over to the restaurant. The honey-glazed BBQ ribs seemed just applicable after such a tough day and Lee ordered a double portion, earning an appreciative glance from George, who, on his part, chose a Wienerschnitzel.

The food proved tasty, the portions generous, and the two preferred culinary satisfaction to work while they ate, having some quality small talk and finding more than a few common interests. Lee did want to make a second attempt to split the bill, having remembered a paragraph in her travel policy and mentioned this to George. Her partner simply asked her not to take this small pleasure from him and Lee didn't have the cheek to insist on hers and spoil this perfect evening by insulting him.

After the second wine, Lee started feeling a pleasant warmth inside and took off her jacket, baring the holster under her left arm.

"A modified .358 Magnum," she beamed proudly, answering her partner's unspoken question. "As the Academy's shooting champion, I got a special permit to wear it."

George drew his brows in surprise. "What's your score from 50 yards?"

"189," the young agent sipped from her wine.

"Mine is 192 from the standard Beretta. Impressive from such a small girl," George admitted, casting an apologetic look at Lee. "I don't know too many male agents who can handle a Magnum properly, even the standard ones. Inspector Callahan wasn't joking."

"I got distracted at my last shot," Lee smiled; she simply adored Clint Eastwood's movies and could recite all of them by heart. "Just when I wanted to pull the trigger, my then-boyfriend took off my ear-muff and whispered into my ear that he loved me. I completely missed the table."

Now George did choke on the piece of meat he was chewing and made a few hasty gulps from his lukewarm beer to wash it off. This girl, half his size, scored 18 "tens" and only one "nine" from 19 shots using a modified Magnum, and he silently chastised himself for having made those first hasty and somewhat negative ordeals of her as a cop.

"Where did you learn to shoot this well?" he asked, only to mask his uneasiness.

"I can't really give you an answer on this," Lee made a dreamy face. "At my first targeting practice I almost shit into my pants when I took the Beretta in my hands. When I finally loaded it with the five rounds I'd been given and put my ear-muffle on, everything and everybody ceased to exist around me. There was only a small, muffled voice inside me that whispered into my ear '_one inch to the right and a half inch above, this is an old practice gun_' and when I pulled the trigger, I instinctively knew it would be a perfect score. Well, it was five perfect shots. Then, I ran outside, the Beretta still in my hands, the sergeant after me shouting something I didn't quite catch, and lost my breakfast."

She stopped her mouth with her hand and flushed beetroot red; it wasn't the perfect table-side conversation theme indeed, but George only smiled understandingly.

No words were spoken of their investigation and it was good this way, both felt instinctively. Both needed this kind of distraction and the possibility to conduct a civilized conversation, just one on one, about really nothing. Voicing this opinion of hers to George, Lee was surprised to see the man nodding profusely, as if proving her theory that her partner was in fact feeling lonely, even if he expertly masked it.

Seeing out the lieutenant to the lobby before going up to her room, Lee reached up with her hands – she had to stand on her tiptoes – and gently pulled the man closer. "Thank you for this wonderful evening!" She said simply, flushing red, but planting a firm kiss on the man's cheeks.

"'Twas my pleasure, Lee," George smiled somewhat confused, briefly hugging the girl to herself. "I'll pick you up tomorrow around 8:30, so you better try get some sleep now; you've had a hell of a day, I assume."

Now, sitting behind the desk in her hotel room and having just finished her diary entry, Lee couldn't help but agree with the lieutenant. She had tried to fall sleep but her brain was making over-hours, trying to put facts and hypotheses together and discard them shortly afterwards. Nothing made sense and nothing fit, and time was ticking. It was past three in the morning when she finally gave up and lay back in her bed with a frustrated sigh, hoping to get at least some sleep before the dawning of yet another – and in her opinion not less tiring – day of investigation.

* * *

A few thousand miles away, in another hotel, the situation was no different. The small meeting room was shielded every possible Muggle and Wizarding way from the outside world and prying eyes and ears. Around the table gathered Her Majesty, the Vice Prime Minister, the Home Secretary, the American, Russian, German, Italian, French and Chinese Ministers of Magic, and Gawain Robards, the head of the Magical Law Enforcement Department. The only entrance to the room was guarded by six SAS members, their small but lethal submachine guns loaded and at ready. Unmoving, the only sign of life came from their eyes, tirelessly scanning the narrow corridor leading to the meeting room. Two middle-aged men in civilian clothing, two of Gawain's best Hit Wizards, their hands holding Auror-standard wands at ready, stood between them, but no words were spoken. Having just been sworn to secrecy, their oath taken by the Queen herself not even half an hour ago, the six SAS commandos already knew who the two other men were, but asked no questions. Asking questions wasn't in their job description. Their orders were simple. They were licensed to kill.

An ethereal, silvery bull swam through the reinforced door. "All clear, Your Majesty," the Auror's Patronus reported in his deep voice. Nodding the news, the Queen made a dismissing gesture with her hand and the Patronus dissolved in the air. She heavily stood, supporting herself with her hands – the last weeks took their toll on her as well – and looked around the room.

Raising her hands, she gestured to the gathered that they might be remained seated. "No formalities, gentlemen. No time for that. First of all, thanks for coming on such short notice. I appealed for your attention to discuss this crisis with you and I had a very good reason not to bring it before the UN. As you are most certainly aware of it, our countries remained without leaders and it's an extremely volatile situation we are living. All evidence says that our leaders – political, financial," she stopped her glance briefly at the American Minister of Magic, "and even religious leaders – have been kidnapped and it was the work of wizarding people. Mr. Robards, if you would." She sat down and Robards stood, briefly bowing towards the Queen.

"Thank you, Your Majesty. To cut it short, folks, someone – one or more wizards – has kidnapped quite a few influential people for an as of yet unknown reason. No calls or ransom letters, no traces, nothing. We don't know who and we don't know why, we know only that we have to find them as soon as possible. Ministers," he turned to the Ministers of Magic," am I safe to assume you brought it with yourself?"

Receiving an approving nod, he flicked his wand, uncovering a strange item in the middle of the table. About two feet tall, made of some kind of eerily glowing, black stone and covered with strange-looking runes, it most reminded a huge cup.

"This is a Pensieve, Your Majesty," Robards turned to the Queen, taking no notice of the other two politicians, "that allows us to see other people's memories that had been extracted previously. Let me demonstrate how it works, so that you understand what we are talking about."

Drawing his wand, he pulled a silvery string of thoughts from his forehead and directed it to the basin. The three Muggles watched in awe as the small, ethereal figure of the Queen rose from the mist and spoke her opening words again. "No formalities, gentlemen. No time for that..."

"Your Majesty, we suspect that in total seven more kidnappings can be associated with the disappearance of our own Prime Minister. Five in the United States, one in Moscow and one in the Vatican. Aurors from the respective Ministries of Magic have conducted their own undercover investigations, disguised as Muggle police officers; in fact all Aurors do carry a rank in the Muggle police forces."

Producing a vial from his pocket, he poured the contents into the basin. "This is the magical pattern we managed to secure at Downing Street." All watched mesmerized the flickering blue light patterns but only a few understood their meaning. Securing the memory back to the vial, he turned to his Russian counterpart. "Mr. Volkov, if you please."

Gawain captured the vial, floating towards him through the air and uncorked it. He attentively watched the scene in the Pensieve, then removed the memory and expectantly turned to the Italian Minister. The scene repeated itself, the silence only broken by an until now unheard voice.

"They are the same, Gawain."

The speaker, a young, thin, bespectacled man, wearing his Auror robe, flanked by his equally clothed, redheaded friend, moved out of the shadows from behind the Queen's chair.

"Says who?" the Italian minister demanded.

"I don't think Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley need any introduction whatsoever," Robards smiled at the other wizard. The Italian Minister turned red. "So this is the famous Potter and his sidekick?" he barked, suspiciously measuring the young wizard with his small eyes.

"No, Minister, this is Chief Auror Harry Potter and Auror Ronald Weasley, Commander Hit-Squad in Her Majesty's service," Robards corrected, slightly fuming, otherwise expertly masking his fury.

"Leave that, Gawain," Harry raised his hand. "Just as I said, the three magical patterns are exactly the same. After hunting down Dark wizards for the last eight years, I think I'm safe to assume that I have the necessary expertise to say so. Unless, Minister, you wish to compare the magical patterns yourself."

The Queen silently amused herself, even in this tough political situation. The young man had been a valuable asset ever since he'd joined the Auror Department, but what a difference there was between the then eighteen-year old, somewhat shy boy who suddenly found himself in the spotlight after having defeated Tom Riddle, and the self-assured, calm, measured young man of the present. Having received the Order of Merlin, First Degree, from her hand, Harry almost fainted; now he was handling political leaders with the same ease he was handling his broom on that demonstration Quidditch Match the newly rebuilt Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had organized on the first anniversary of Voldemort's downfall she had been invited to.

"I agree with Chief Auror Potter," Ron spoke unexpectedly. "The wand patterns show an obvious match, moreover, from what I've just seen I can conclude that this wizard was at least seventy years old."

"What made you think so, Commander Weasley?" The Home Secretary asked, silently filing this bit of information.

"Sir, it's kind of hard to explain to a Mu... I beg your pardon, to someone with no magical capabilities," Ron corrected himself. "This is a signature of an Apparition Charm, in other words a charm one would use to displace himself from one location to another. The Apparition Charm in this form hasn't been taught since well before WW II, so it's safe to assume that this wizard had learned it before or around that time. And, to learn Apparition, one has to be at least 16-18 years old, so the sum is pretty simple."

"Makes sense, Auror Weasley," the American Minister mused, reaching into his pocket. "Chief Auror Potter, would you please examine these pieces of evidence?"

"Sure, Minister," Harry nodded, emptying the contents of the five other vials into the Pensieve, examining them one by one. It took him only a few seconds before he nodded approvingly. "Exactly the same. That's interesting."

Turning to his superior, he took off his spectacles and wiped it against his robe. "Gawain, congratulations. We've just gone worldwide."

"I hope you forgive me for asking what might seem a stupid question to you, but is it possible that someone else used the same wand for this ... Apparition of yours?" The Home Secretary asked.

"Theoretically possible, although a wand recognizes only one master. I don't think I could perform anything more complex than a simple Levitation Charm if I had to borrow Commander Weasley's wand, and an Apparition Charm is by far more complex than that. I know adult Wizards who were unable to master it. So, my answer to your question would be a simple 'no'," Harry answered seriously, without the slightest trace of hesitation in his voice.

"Agreed, Chief Auror Potter," Gawain concluded. "We have one suspect, in his seventies or older, an elderly and old-fashioned wizard. I suggest we do the following. First, run this signature through our respective databases. If I'm informed correctly, in all countries present here the signatures of all wizards are registered within the Ministries." He looked around the table, only to see all present Ministers nodding profusely.

"Second," he continued in his deep bass, "do the same checks on all wands 'lost and found' and comb through all reports of wand thefts. That's what concerns our investigations. Ministers, may I ask you to give the necessary orders to your Ministries right away? We have no time to lose, so I suggest fifteen minutes pause before we commence so that you could do whatever needed."

No one moved, according to the etiquette, before the Queen finally stood and dismissed the meeting. Six Patroni appeared, carefully listening to commands barked in six languages, then dissolved in the air, making their way through 'Time and no Time, Space and no Space' towards their respective destinations.

Harry had always found Hermione's definition of Patroni quite amusing, although he never understood the mechanism behind this sophisticated charm, even being the youngest ever to be able to conjure one. There was something poetic in these words, and he remembered that winter what seemed an eternity ago, on the run with her, when she tried to explain to him, patiently as always, that the basic magical elements of her bottomless beaded bag, Apparition and Patroni were practically the same.

Now, watching the ethereal animals disappear, he understood she was right, as she always - or at least almost always - had been. Leave that to Hermione Granger to build and successfully defend a scientific theory around setting the perfect coffee, applying one or another haircut, or working out a way to defend the most feared Dark wizard of all times!

"Your wife is brilliant, you know that?" he continued his train of thoughts aloud, clapping Ron's shoulder.

"Mhmhm... I know that allright? Outwardly scary sometimes how brilliant she really is, especially when she trains her wand on me when I come home with a beer or two too much up," Ron burst out in laughter. "Those fucking canaries are nothing in comparison with the ravens she conjured last time."

"Well, I dunno," Harry pulled his face into a grimace, "but I have the strangest feeling that it might have had to do with her being eight months pregnant with nota bene _you_r second child and _you_ acting like an idiot and trying to shove _your_ tongue down Lav-Lav's throat on _her _wedding party while groping her ass in front of family and wedding guests."

"C'mon, cut me a break, will you?" Ron flushed red. "I had one firewhiskey too much up, that's all."

"You already got one nice, long, one-month break from Hermione, remember? She ultimately forgave you when I brought you to St. Mungo's to see her and Rosie, but mate, you were lucky, if you ask me."

"How does my wife come into the picture of all these disappearances?" Ron started to lose his patience.

"Because, you moron, I just found out how we could proceed with our investigation and it was one of her magical theories that gave me the idea. You've been living with her for seven years, yet you don't understand the way she thinks. What do you know about Apparition in general?"

Ron frowned his brows, trying to remember Wilkie Twycross' class. "There were those stupid Three D's: Destination, Determination, and Deliberation, as far as I remember. How to fix someone who had Splinched himself, and the like."

"Apparition is tra-ce-ab-le," Harry spelled out the syllables to his best friend. "With some luck and having a clean signature, an expert can figure out from where or to where our guy was Apparating. We have a signature, even several ones, now we only need some luck and an expert. Do you know of such an expert?"

A minute of pause followed, both concentrating hard. "Bill!" they cried out in unison.

The door opened and the Queen entered the room, flanked by the six SAS members, then the soldiers resumed their previous positions guarding the door.

Whispering a few words into Gawain's ears, Harry was rewarded with a curt, approving nod. Turning towards the Queen, he spoke up.

"Your Majesty, in the meantime we developed a small theory here but we need an expert to prove that. May I request your permission to bring here the man that I think would be the most suitable candidate?"

"Chief Auror, do what you see fit. People, finances, equipment, it shouldn't be an issue."

Thank you, Your Majesty," Harry bowed curtly. _Merlin's pants, a carte blanche from the Queen herself_. _It's some deep shit we are sitting in if she's that scared._

Invoking his Patronus, he instructed the animal with a few words and then watched the stag as it galloped away. In a few moments, a silvery wolf appeared in front of him and spoke in Bill's voice. "Count me in, kiddo. Pick me up from home in five minutes."

Bill was the only person to call Harry that name, after Ron, his closest friend. Smiling at his brother-in-law's antics, Harry drew his wand and stepped into nothingness with a small pop. He himself had set up the protective wards around the whole hotel not even an hour ago, keying only himself, Ron and Gawain into them.

"In the meantime, Ministers," Ron turned to their foreign guests, "may I suggest that the integrity of the Anti-Apparition and Anti-Portkey wards on your government buildings, Senates, Parliaments and the homes of the members of your governments be investigated and if necessary, reinforced. Our suspect here is a well-trained wizard, once he could get past those wards in effect, and an extra line of defense around his potential targets would do no harm."

The Ministers nodded approvingly, their Quick-note Quills jotting down Ron's words without failure.

With a somewhat louder crack, Harry returned, Bill holding onto his arm. Standing behind his brother-in-law, he introduced him to the Queen. "Your Majesty, this is William Weasley, the best curse-breaker in England."

"Mr. Weasley, may the Crown imply on your willingness to help us?" the Queen asked rather superfluously, looking into the badly scarred face of the young man.

"Most certainly, Your Majesty," Bill bowed his head.

"Thank you, Mr. Weasley. Now, you do understand that everything bespoken here will stay in this room, don't you?"

Approvingly nodding, Bill drew his wand and raised it into a ceremonial stance. "I, William Weasley, swear upon my life and magic, that every word spoken here in this room will be remaining a secret and that I will disclose nothing of it unless specifically instructed by one of the people present here. So mote it be!" A brief flash surrounded his body as the Wizarding Oath was accepted, and he pocketed his wand again.

"Bill," Harry turned to his surrogate brother, "we have quite a few Apparition patterns here that seem to come from the same wizard. We would like you to try trace them where they are coming from and where they are going to. Can you do that?"

"How old are those traces?" Bill scratched his ear.

"Sometime between a week and three weeks," Ron was already with the answer.

"Well," Bill started slowly, "with a pattern one-two days old, I would give myself a 99% chance. With signatures that old... tough one, but I can try. I don't promise anything, though. Where shall we start?"

"Who disappeared first?" Harry asked the table. The Ministers briefly consulted their parchments, then a small chalkboard conjured by Gawain was filled with all details. "The rabbi, in Washington."

"Brilliant," Bill grinned. "I always wanted to see the White House."


	11. Chapter 11

Harry was famous for hating Portkeys, but his first international Portkey tip to New York he would remember until his dying day. He couldn't remember how long that whirlwind was twisting and turning him around, but when it all finally ended, he landed on all four, hitting his head against a chair and passing out. When he was brought by a good five minutes later, lying flat on the floor, he flushed red from embarrassment and tried to stand up.

"Easy, kiddo," Bill smiled at him. "You've had a rough landing, that's all. Give it a few secs to settle down."

"I hate magic transport," Harry moaned, trying to shake the dizziness out of his head. "Honestly, it's a conspiracy against me. First time using the Floo, I end up in Knockturn Alley. My first Apparition, I splinch my scalp away. And now this."

Bill cracked a smile and reached out with his hand to pull his brother-in-law up. His grip was firm and manly; tight groups of muscles bulging on his forearm, and Harry was wondering how this strong hand was capable to handle all those feather-fine wand movements his job was requiring from time to time.

"Thanks bro," Harry stood somewhat groggily, leaning against a table for support. "Where are we?"

"In a hotel room in the Regency in New York, courtesy of the American Minister of Magic," Bill looked out of the huge window, down the street, admiring the hustle and bustle of the metropolis. Being an expert curse-breaker, he'd been to several Gringott's affiliates in several countries, but it was the first time he'd been properly _abroad._ "Come on, get dressed, lieutenant," he threw a small bag at Harry and started unzipping his.

"What's all this?" Harry rummaged in the bag, producing a grey overall made of some weird plastic material, a holster with the standard police sidearm and a London PD badge.

"Our cover is," Bill explained patiently, "that we are from the technical folks, you know, who try to fix fingerprints, blood-stains, and the like. You have done undercover ops, haven't you?"

"Kidding me?" Harry changed quickly, examining the small, but lethal .38 in his hand, silently admiring its black matte finish. During his Auror training he had to learn to operate Muggle weapons, but he still preferred his wand, even though it was a reassuring feeling that he could always fall back on other weapons, should it be necessary. Shaking his head, he replaced the gun into the holster and turned to his brother-in-law. "I'm an early starter, don't forget. I haven't had Dad's cloak for nothing, you know, and sneaking into the Slytherin common room, Polyjuiced, should also count for something."

"Ok, ok, kiddo, you convinced me," Bill laughed, clapping him on his shoulder. Adjusting his overall, he checked himself in the mirror. "I hear we'll get two young female agents to drive us around," he said as-a-matter-of-factly, while applying a few minor charms to get rid of the deep scars on his face.

"Does Fleur know?" Harry playfully winked at the older wizard and was surprised to see his face turn dark.

"Harry, with all respect, the very first person to accuse me of spousal infidelity will be the first one in three thousand years to experience the Egyptian _neper-sef-teti_ ritual on himself. I love Fleur very dearly and I'd rather have my arms cut off than even think about of another woman."

"Cool down, lieutenant Waltman," Harry did some damage assessment. "It wasn't your fault that Monique tried to hit on you in front of Fleur."

"Partly it was," Bill admitted, checking his own gun and grabbing a small aluminium attaché-case. "I should have known that Veela are extremely susceptible to alcohol and give her apple juice instead. I should have Petrified her when she started groping me, but I didn't want to make a scene in front of my wide and four dozen birthday guests. I just took her outside and told her that I wouldn't tolerate this behaviour in my home. It wasn't my mistake that Fleur came after us and thought I was being too comfortable with her." Pocketing his wand and pulling up the flyer of his overall, he cast a sad glance at the bespectacled young man. "See, in a way she's like your wife. First curse, then think and apologize. The difference is that the fireball of a Veela can make more damage than Ginny's Bat-Bogey Hex. One just has to be aware of which days one should be extra careful."

The phone rang and he hurried to the table to pick up the receiver. "Yes, Detective Waltman of the Scotland Yard speaking."

He attentively listened to the invisible speaker, then he nodded approvingly towards Harry. "You said five minutes, Lt. Mulcahy? Okay, we will be waiting for you downstairs in the lobby."

Bill emitted a short laugh and smiled into the receiver. "Don't worry about recognizing us, Lt. Mulcahy. You couldn't miss two people in those disgusting plastic overalls in a hotel lobby even during a solar eclipse with your eyes blindfolded. See you downstairs."

Replacing the phone, he made a brief gesture towards the door. "After you, Detective Porter. Although, I need to admit that Chief Auror Potter sounds much, much better."

The five minutes turned out fifteen, when the two detectives finally arrived at the hotel. Entering the lobby, one of them, a rather attractive redhead quickly scanned the few people lounging there or standing behind the reception desk, and her deep green eyes stopped at the sight of the two figures dressed into identical grey overalls. Christie made her way immediately towards them, Jackie one step behind, slightly panting.

"You must be our British guests, right?" the redhead smiles at the two agents, offering her right hand. "I'm Lt. Mulcahy and this is my partner Lt. Slocombe of the NYPD."

"How do you do, Lieutenant?" Harry gently shook her hand and turned towards her partner to repeat the gesture. "This is my partner, Detective William Waltman and I'm Detective James Porter, leading the investigation."

Christie measured the two agents with badly disguised interest. James seemed too young to have finished the academy, but on the other hand he must have been a good one once he'd been put in charge. Taking a closer look, she saw quite a few deep wrinkles around his emerald eyes and understood the young detective must have gone through things in his short life she most probably didn't even want to know. Bill, on the other hand, was a tad bit older, also a redhead, and a few inches higher than herself who, with her six foot one was not among the smallest.

"Guys, I suggest we go on first names if you don't mind," she flashed a perfect smile at her new partners. "I guess that will make life easier if we stick less to formalities. So you can call us Christie and Jackie."

"Done deal, Christie," Harry nodded approvingly. "Jackie," he friendly acknowledged the other girl, a blonde about his height and age, whose bluebell-colored eyes somewhat reminded him of Luna.

"Shall we go then?" Jackie spoke up in her melodic voice, her somewhat nasal accent giving away her New Hampshire origins. "Our car is outside and we can catch up on things during the drive." Bill muttered something incomprehensive under his nose.

"All right, lead the way, Jackie." He copied the girl's dialect so perfectly, that Jackie involuntarily shrugged and looked at the young man in surprise. "And you say you're British?"

"Just trying to blend in, you know," Bill winked at Harry. "It would do no good to the effectiveness of our communication if we forced you to decipher my Cockney and Jim's Midlands." He pronounced the last sentence in an exaggerated Cockney and the two girls pressed their hands on their ears, laughing in unison.

"You at the Scotland Yard are damn fast," Christie nodded approvingly, while Jackie started the V8 of the black Suburban and drove off with spinning wheels. "We just got a phone call an hour ago from Bernie, our Squad leader, that two of you would be coming over. Did you take the Space Shuttle or something?"

Bill and Harry exchanged a quick glance. A Portkey trip takes a minute at most and they wasted no time with arrangements after the meeting ended. Popping home for a change of clothes, picking up their disguises and kissing their wives and kids goodbye took less than fifteen minutes before the Portkey, made by the American Minister of Magic on the spot, took them in its whirlwind to the suite Ministry guests were usually occupying in the Regency. "Uhm, we came last night, actually," Bill answered after slight hesitation, "it's just that the communication channels between our Ministries don't always work as supposed." Mentally wiping his forehead, he let out a small sigh, seeing the two girls nodding profusely.

"Yeah, you can say that, Bill," Jackie looked back behind her shoulder, "even our Bureau is full of fucking bureaucrats. Can you imagine? I had to fill in seven forms and collect eleven signatures before I could have my defect Beretta replaced. It took me the best part of a month."

Harry tried to look sympathetic. _You haven't seen Fudge, girls._ "So, how's things here? Are you proceeding with your investigation?"

The two female agents looked as if they'd bitten into a giant lemon. "Don't even ask. It's THE prefect crime, although we learned at the Academy that it doesn't exist. We've seen the place gazillion times, combed out Camp David. Zero, zilch, nada, NOTHING. I don't know what you guys are expecting to find here, but we have all time of the world, so be our guests."

Harry rather comically scratched his nose. "It's very hush-hush, girls, but I can tell you that this fella here is the best man in England when it comes down to identifying partial fingerprints. We found quite a few at Downing Street and we hope to find at least something here that may help us tie all these cases together."

Christie emitted a frustrated sigh, shaking her gorgeous head. "Then you're way ahead of us. I'm afraid if we don't show at least some results here pretty soon, Bernie will bust our sorry asses out to the streets to chase stolen cars and bring in hookers to the precinct."

"That one, ladies, would be a rather unpleasant turn of events, would it?" Bill offered generously and the two girls giggled.

"Oh yes, the owners of aforementioned body parts would find it a highly irritating development, to say the least. I only hope Lee comes up with something any time soon," Christie rattled. "Come to think of it," she reached into her jacket for her cell phone, "I promised to call on her to see how things are advancing in the Big Apple."

The number was on speed dial and she raised the blue Motorola to her ears, removing a stray lock of fiery red hair from her eyes with her other hand, perfectly aware that the two guests were following her every movement with their eyes.

"Hey, Hobbit, what's up?" she lovingly greeted the third part of the Triplet. The news seemingly weren't the best; Harry saw her attractive features wrought into a frustrated grimace.

"So, you got, saw, heard nothing at the Mullah's place?" Apologetically looking at the guests, she covered the receiver with her finely manicured hand.

"Lee is our partner, the third part of the Siamese Triplet as people at the Bureau call us. She's over there in New York doing the same thing we're doing here, wasting our time on nothing."

"Hey Hobbit," she spoke up again, "We've got two attractive young men from the Old World here in the car with us. No," she laughed prettily, "no dates at such an early hour. They are from the Scotland Yard, you know, something like the CSI gurus, although these look like less nerdy and more alive, in my humble opinion." Casting a quick glance at the young men's hands, she sighed. "Both married, yes. And you, driving or being driven?" The revving of an engine was clearly audible to the other three through the tiny speaker.

Seemingly satisfied with the answer, she looked outside, checking their whereabouts. "Well, need to hang up, Hobbit. Catch up with you tonight. You take care of yourself, promise? Love you too." Folding the Motorola, she broke the call and pocketed her phone.

"She what, Tolkien's great-granddaughter?" Harry cast an incredulous look at Christine.

The redhead only smiled at his antics, amusedly clapping her knees. "No, sweetheart, she five foot one, way under par, hence the name. Honestly, I don't know how she managed to convince the Committee but don't underestimate her, she's a far better agent than either of us will ever be. Ain't it right, J?"

The blonde engaged "P" on the gearbox and switched off the engine that died with a last, muted roar. "Damn right, Chrissie. You got the looks, I got the brains, but Lee got the C.O.P. virus."

"Shut up, bitch," Christie lovingly chided her partner, switching over to the genuine Dublin accent her parents still spoke at home. "I will have you know that my brains are nothing less than them gorgeous tits you been shaking last Saturday at Ezprezzo's while dancing with that Italian god, thank you very much."

Their howling laughter shook the Suburban and the elderly lady walking her two Corgies past the car and frightened by the sudden noise quickly made her way as far away as possible from the dark van without a licence plate.


	12. Chapter 12

A few hundred miles away, Lee pocketed her cell phone as well and smiled at her partner. George, impeccably shaven and wearing a crisply ironed, snow-white shirt with no tie this time, checked the rear-view mirror and drove off.

"Your partners at the Bureau?" he inquired simply, making a small gesture towards the now invisible phone.

"More like my sisters, George," she spoke softly, thinking back to the last five years. "Jackie, Christie and myself have been through school together, destroyed many bottles of tequila and quite a few male hearts; well, this last part mainly being Christie's guilt, and now we are in the same Theta Squad. It's not for nothing that they call us the Siamese Triplet."

"You may consider yourself lucky, Lee, for having such good friends," George spoke seriously, his much-seen face promptly overshadowed by something Lee couldn't decipher. Luckily, she didn't have to break her head over it for too long; after short hesitation, the Lieutenant continued his train of thoughts.

"See, it's completely different to have someone to work with someone every day, someone to grab a pint or to go to a baseball game with, but to trust someone with your life... well, those are the real friends." Consulting the mirror again, George completely missed the somewhat religious admiration the young agent was clinging on to his words.

"I had two friends, two real friends in my whole life, Lee, and I'm thankful to whatever God there's up there for every moment I spent with them."

Lee did note the usage of Past Tense in his last sentence, and, although her tongue was itching to ask what had happened to those two friends, she wisely kept her mouth shut. He would tell anyway if he wanted to, she thought, and indeed, her intuition didn't fail her.

"My best mate, Jonesy stepped on a fucking landmine in 'Nam that had torn his leg off. He died in my arms. I did try to bandage his leg, at least what was left of it, but he just bled dry in two minutes and I couldn't do anything to save him. It was all surreal that this guy who just a few days back had saved my life was there no more and my world collapsed. Mind you, I was only eighteen then and even though I had already seen enough deaths for a lifetime by that time, I kinda lost it."

He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts and Lee suddenly felt very sorry for him. Behind the tough looks hid a real, warm, feeling heart and a wonderful person. Even though those events took place three decades ago, there are things that never let you go, wounds that still bleed, pain that returns.

She brushed her hand against his, resting on the steering wheel; this simple gesture saying more than thousand words. Her simply being there and listening him out gave him the strength to continue.

"My second best friend and my partner for the last eleven years was killed two years ago in a hit-and-run accident. He was the kind of friend I was talking about, one who understood you from a half-word, who would lend you ten bucks when you are dry, mercilessly tease you when your football team loses, but jump in front of a bullet to save your life."

He held a long pause, trying to feign interest to the red sports car driving before him, but Lee still felt his internal turmoil. Not really knowing what to say, she fished out a battered candy bar from her pocket and dividing it into two, offered one half to the Lieutenant. He thankfully accepted the Twix and, still deep in his thoughts, started munching at it.

"Look at me, behaving like a teenage girl abandoned on her first date and crying into Mammy's shoulders," George's voice, somewhat unnatural, startled the young agent. "Shit, I missed our exit," he suddenly sweared out, consulting the satnav screen and, with a decision coming seemingly from nowhere, abruptly turned the car around with an expertly performed handbrake turn. Lee, in her surprise, almost did in her pants at the sudden manoeuvre, but approvingly nodded. She always admired those stunt drivers she saw perform their tricks in movies, even dated a boy once who was dreaming about a Nascar career, but for her a car was a steering wheel, an engine and four wheels, good enough to bring her safely from A to B.

Now on the right track, it took no more than ten minutes before the car stopped in yet another luxury suburb in front of the villa belonging to Mr. Robertson, the Nasdaq president.

Getting out of the car, George opened Lee's door and, instead of lending her a hand to help her get out, effortlessly lifted her off and spun her a few times around, holding her at her hips, Lee at first emitting a surprised yelp, then a ringing cackle.

"My Dad used to greet me this way every day when I came home from school," she grinned at George.

"Well, theoretically speaking, I could have a daughter your age by now," George clicked the remote control doorlock, his dark brown eyes mischievously twinkling. "Let's see if anybody's at home."

The spacious penthouse belonging to Samuel Rosenbaum was decorated tastefully, without overwhelming luxury. Only one of the rooms, functioning as his cabinet, was different; two of the four walls were occupied by tailor-made bookshelves made of expensive redwood, featuring mostly religious literature including a Gutenberg Bible under glass all leading libraries of the world would do a kill for.

Having opened the door, Jackie swung it wide, gesturing towards their guests to enter. "Ladies first," gently nudging her, Bill held the door, patiently waiting until the two girls entered.

Giggling, the "ladies" obeyed, making their way directly to the study, where the Rabbi presumably worked before he disappeared. Nothing had been touched on the desk, a half-finished letter was still lying there, the ink by now dried in in his expensive fountain pen.

Leaning over the table, careful not to touch anything, Harry quickly read into the letter trying to feign interest. It was a letter to the Rabbi's much younger sister congratulating her on her fiftieth birthday and Harry made a mental note to pass this bit of information to the agents, although he guessed this lead had already been checked and re-checked several times.

As if reading his thoughts, Christie spoke up, just a step behind him. "She lives in the middle of fucking nowhere, in a God-forgotten suburb of Chicago called Joliet."

"Don't listen to her," Jackie whispered into his ear giving him the goosebumps, "she's still pissed as hell for having gambled five hundred bucks away on the Casino Boat."

"Hey J, I heard that," Christie furrowed her brows, "you didn't do much better yourself."

"I lost only two hundred, thank you very much," Jackie playfully slapped her bottom, quickly stepping out of her reach, before Christie could retaliate. "Babe, unlike you, I know when to stop."

Harry and Bill were quite amusing themselves, listening to the girls' ironic conversations. They were fun but kind of empty-headed and the two wizards were eager to start their own investigation. With the two Muggles around, however, they couldn't pull their wands and do their magick, so they had to take more desperate measures.

"Arresto Momentum!" Harry intoned, drawing a short, straight pattern with his wand towards the girls' backs who, not suspecting anything, still mercilessly teased each other. Their figures froze amidst their gestures, their lips forming the last syllable that didn't manage to escape to freedom.

"Why not Petrifying them?" Bill incredulously drew his brows. "Why wasting your magical energy like this rather than casting a simple curse?"

"Because, my dear brother-in-law," Harry explained patiently, "Petrification can have some side effects as headache or nausea and doesn't switch them off completely. They will see and hear everything, although won't be able to react, but when we bring them back after we're done here, they will scratch out our eyes and collect our scalps after or maybe before - having their ways with us. Didn't you see that predatory look in the redhead's eyes? She was eye-fucking you all the time."

"Forgive me, oh esteemed Chief Auror Potter Sir," Bill bowed deeply in a rather George-ish way. "I'm but a simple Curse-breaker who doesn't get involved in the deeper human aspects of applied magic." Only now understanding the hilarity of Harry's last phrase, he burst out in roaring laughter and, still shaking his head from disbelief, rolled back his sleeve.

"Step aside, little bro, and let the professionals do their work. You're exercising a negative influence on my core," he shoved the younger wizard aside, drawing his wand. "Try not to breathe the next fifteen minutes."

Mrs. Robertson was, as it turned out, shopping on Fifth Avenue. At least this was the story her housekeeper told the agents after grudgingly opening the fence so that they could park the Nitro in front of the house itself.

"I have already told you everything, Lieutenant," she greeted them at the door.

"A very good morning to you as well, Mrs. Mason," George didn't let himself be discouraged by the rather rude and cold reception. "I've got Special Agent Sarrazano from the Bureau with me. She's working on a series of cases like this and I do expect that you tell her everything you know, you might consider important."

"You, a Fed?" Wanda measured the young agent with a glance full disbelief. Lee calmly answered her glance, but said nothing, although her Italian blood started to boil. There was nothing she hated most than being judged from the first sight. Quite a few of her co-students, mostly male, had made this very same mistake during their Academy years, only to have been publicly humiliated by her exceptional exam results, sharp tongue, and in a few cases her punches and kicks during Self-Defense lessons. This time, she chose a slightly different tactics.

"This is the point, Mrs. Mason," she sang in a mock sweet voice, "where you invite us in and offer us a cup of coffee and say 'Ask away, agent Sarrazano, I will do my best to answer your questions.'"

The middle-aged housekeeper, with her ridiculous, old-fashioned toupee, stood for a moment, her mouth agape, silently counting to twenty before she finally found the words to answer.

"Of course, please do come in." The slightly unnatural red on her face signalling the clear win of Lee by TKO in the first round, she stepped aside and directed the two agents to a small sitting room, nudging them to sit down. Before leaving them, however, her glance shot a few arrows infused with curare towards the young detective, silently wishing her a few selected sorts of death including a heart attack, cancer and being beheaded by a Samurai sword at the same time.

"I'm not going to lie about it, I don't like Mr. Robinson," she started her tale, when she returned with a tray with three cups of coffee and some sweets on it. Lee's built-in sixth sense raised 'orange alarm' immediately, but said nothing, only, seemingly absent-mindedly, stirred her coffee. Beneath the surface, however, she was very much alert and the housekeeper's following words only poured oil on her suspicions.

"I've been working for Edna Barney... Mrs. Robinson for more than twenty years now. See, she comes from a once rich Southern family that went down the financial slope when her father, Colonel Barned was gunned down above the Pacific in '42. Her mother had absolutely no understanding of money and how to handle it and spent all their savings by the mid-fifties, including two ranches in South Dakota. So she got obsessed with the idea of finding a good party for Edna, someone who could help them maintain their previous life standards."

The two agents listened attentively, every now and then sipping from their already cold coffee, although Lee's bullshit meter was giving out frequent warning peeps. She already knew how the housekeeper's tale would continue and, ultimately, end, and thought all this a piece of horse-radish, a complete waste of time, something that had nothing to do with her investigation.

She decided, in order not to let her starting migraine develop further, to voice her opinion, completely ignoring what she'd been taught at the Academy.

"So, Mr. Robinson was the good party. Or rather I should say the latest in the chain. Tell me please why you don't like him."

If Wanda's looks could kill, Lee's decomposing remains would have been already lying on one of the CSI nerds' section table. "Why should I like him? He beat up Edna more than once, calling her a 'money-hungry whore' or a "greedy bitch'."

Lee's obvious answer died away in her throat after George's gentle, but firm nudge. Sending a murderous glare towards the Lieutenant, she grudgingly decided to take another attack strategy. "Has Mrs. Robertson ever filed a case of domestic violence? Any police been around to investigate?"

Wanda shook her head in disbelief. "Why would she? Given, she's not the slimmest person on Earth, but even she knows when to back off."

"Mr. and Mrs. Robertson have signed a spousal contract." To Lee, the math was simple and cruel. Had she filed for divorce, she would have lost everything. Cruel indeed, but then... Edna Barney knew what she was signing up for when she scribbled down her name under that paper.

Nodding briefly, she rose from the comfortable armchair she was occupying. "Mrs. Mason, would you mind if I looked around a little? The forensics have already done their job, so I'm not going to make a mess. I just need to see where Mr. Robertson was that night and where he might have disappeared from."

"Whatever, agent, if I don't have to clean up after you." At this point, Lee would have enjoyed strangling the woman. 


	13. Chapter 13

Harry tried to do his best to keep low. Even for him, a well-trained, powerful wizard, the scene was slightly frightening. The air in the study was saturated with magical energy; a cold, chilling feeling was crawling down his spine and his raven-black hair stood up as if he were standing too close to a giant TV screen. He had to admit he had absolutely no idea what the other wizard was doing, he recognized none of the spells Bill was performing. From the beads of sweat rolling down on his forehead Harry could only deduct that those were extremely complex spells consuming an immense amount of magical energy.

Finally, Bill lowered his wand and loudly released the air in his lungs. His knees buckled the same instant and he grabbed an armchair to support himself. Harry rushed to him to help, but the older wizard hushed him away, reaching into his robe.

"'Mallright, kiddo," he smiled at his brother-in-law, slowly unwrapping the somewhat formless chocolate bar he'd found, although one look at the ashen colour on his face was enough for Harry to understand his _real _physical state.

"Sit the fuck down, Bill, and get some rest," the smile disappeared from the face of the young Chief Auror. "Fleur will have my balls if I let anything happen to you during our tiny little assignment here."

"Including these two here?" Bill nodded toward the two frozen agents, absent-mindedly chewing his candy.

Harry scratched his ear in a rather comical way. "I'm afraid she would want to have the balls of both of us. You already have a daughter, so that's not a big issue, but in my and Ginny's case..."

Only his exceptional reflexes saved him from being hit in the head by a second chocolate bar Bill had thrown at him. Catching the Mars in mid-air, easily, as if it were standing still and not flying, he unwrapped it and took a healthy bite, cheekily grimacing at the red-headed young man. "So, Mr. Weasley, did we justify the costs of an International Portkey?"

"Yeah, I think so," Bill nodded satisfiedly, the healthy colour slowly returning onto his face. "I managed to trace back the route he had Apparated here. Four legs of Apparitions in quick succession: the Bahamas, the Azores, Paris, with Bergen, Norway as starting point. This man, Harry – please understand me correctly – is much more powerful than I will ever be."

This one, the young Auror understood at once. The farthest he'd ever managed to Apparate in one leg was between Paris and Calais, and even this distance rendered him useless for the better part of an hour. Covering thousands of miles in quick succession seemed to him almost impossible, but he had no reason whatsoever to question the older, more powerful and most importantly, more experienced wizard with his specific knowledge.

"Where did he go from here?" he asked in a hoarse voice, still digesting the news.

"Portkey," Bill answered briefly. "I couldn't trace it further."

"Of course," Harry slapped his forehead. "Even his magical reserves can't be endless, Side-alonging someone most probably unconscious, so he must have made a Portkey upfront to take them wherever needed."

"Makes sense, bro," Bill stood from the chair, grabbing a pencil from the Rabbi's desk. _These_ wand movements Harry did recognize at once. "Where are we going?" Nudging him to come closer, Bill tapped the pencil one more time with his wand. "Bergen."

Five minutes later both felt extremely sorry for their somewhat hastily taken decision. When the Portkey dropped them off in their whirlwind, the ice-cold wind almost instantaneously froze their face, its roar making all communication effectively impossible. Turning to Bill, Harry tried to open his mouth, only to be rewarded with a fresh load of snow in his face by a violent gush of wind. Having had enough of this, the young wizard pulled his wand and cast a shield around them first, his second wand movement invoking a Heating charm to warm up this sudden oasis of silence amidst the roaring snowstorm. Only then did he let out a satisfied sigh, wiping the remnants of the snow from his face.

"That was a _blasted_ good idea, Mr. Weasley," he half-heartedly chided his brother-in-law.

The red-headed wizard only drew his shoulders. "How does casting two charms in quick succession over a place where one wants to pick up residual magical signatures qualify then?"

The young Auror lowered his head in shame. He – albeit unwillingly - destroyed the first piece of evidence that could have brought them closer to the solution of this mysterious chain of disappearances, a mistake even a rookie Auror wouldn't have made on his first assignment.

"Never mind, little bro," Bill tapped him on his shoulder. "We have the Apparition coordinates for all legs and something tells me that we still have a long way to go today. Come, I want you to see something." With these words he turned around and with steady steps started walking towards a point only known to him, stepping out of the protecting circle of the shield.

The wind and snowfall that abruptly doubled in intensity seemed not to disturb him and upon casting a better second look at him, Harry suddenly understood why. The snowflakes didn't seem to reach him at all, disappearing about an inch away from his body. Bill had cast, most probably before activating the Portkey here, a highly sophisticated personal shield at himself, just in case. He never saw the charm in action, none of the Auror squad was able to cast it, although the prototype of this shield was said to have been created about three decades ago by a young Auror, a certain Frank Longbottom. Grudgingly, cursing out under his breath, he cancelled his shield – he didn't want to seem weak in front of Bill – and set off after him, on the go applying a second Heating charm, this time on his overall, that at least didn't let the snow stick to his clothes and to a certain point made him feel somewhat less miserable.

The hilltop they had landed at was vastly covered with a foot of snow, but Bill, now well ahead of him, already cleared a two-feet-wide path they could safely walk. The path went somewhat higher and Harry soon started cursing the day he had stopped working out in the gym. Thankfully, Bill soon stopped and just stood there, his gaze fixed at a point Harry couldn't see yet, patiently waiting for the young man.

"I hope this is the point that you tell me 'Hey Harry, I found him! I solved our mystery!' and I didn't have to do all this climbing for nothing," he panted heavily.

"No, this is the point when I tell you "look at this astonishing beauty'," Bill pointed around with a wide gesture.

"For Merlin's sake, please don't say we've come all the way here to do sightseeing in this fucking cold," Harry snapped irritatedly, finally catching up with Bill. As he looked around, however, he swallowed back the even-less-happy continuation of his sentence.

The view from the hilltop _was_ breathtakingly beautiful. Just a few steps in front of them, the world ended in a 300-meter deep abyss where the reckless forces of the last ice age carved the Bergen-fjord into the granite plateau some ten thousand years ago. The snowfall by now lessened in intensity; the giant scar on the body of the continent opening up before them in its whole magnificence as far as their eyes could see. Somewhere deep below them, a huge passenger ship was just about to throw anchor in the port of Bergen; from here a barely visible white spot only.

"I've been here with Fleur once," Bill said simply, "although the weather gods were more friendly last July. You know Mademoiselle, she's a rather irate critic, but this place managed to shut even her up. We spent a wonderful weekend here in a simple wooden house, took a boat cruise around the fjord, ate some quality smoked salmon that even she had to value properly, picked lingonberries in the forests around the town. Were it not for a fucking eight-month long winter every year, I would say this was the place I wanted to grow old with her."

"Strange," he continued after a long pause neither wanted to break, "how fragile our peace, our life, all beauty on Earth is. It can end any minute and only in the fifty-fifth second of this last minute do we finally start to appreciate what we have. We are at war again, Harry, this time against an invisible enemy and we are not the winning party, at this point. I'm not saying this to frighten you; you and I have seen this already, it's just that we have to be prepared, yet again."

"I hate to say this, but I'm going apply for a bonus for this fine piece of magic when we get back to London," smiling, he reached into his pocket for the Portkey. "I keyed all his destinations into the charm so that we could trace all his route backwards. I only hope the weather is fine in Paris so that we could have a coffee with Gabrielle and Apolline at the Seine. And Harry, if Gabrielle wants to sit on your lap while drinking that coffee, don't take this small pleasure away from her. You know she still has a slight crush on you but she'd promised to behave herself, at least in front of her mother. About other situations, well, I'm not so sure, so you might still have to watch out."

"Thanks for saving that bitch Wanda from dying a painful death," Lee blushed sheepishly, occupying her seat in the Nitro and buckling herself up.

"Quite the specimen, isn't she?" George's voice sounded strangely muffled as he leaned down to tie his lace. "I was already getting worried whether you were going to scratch out her eyes."

"I had to restrain myself with all self-control I'd left; I even bought some on Ebay," Lee laughed throatily. "I was _this_ close, though," she held the tip of her thumb and forefinger away by a fracture of a millimeter.

"I saw that, Lee," George understandingly nodded, revving up the engine. "Your face was taking quite a few rather interesting shades in quick succession."

Lee screwed up her face, huffing in annoyance. "You are slightly impossible. I'm on the verge of committing a crime and making up plans to take the good woman's life in the most horrible ways one can imagine and you... you..."

"What me?" Lee gently nudged her, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

"You... need caffeine." Sure thing they did.

"What do you make of all this?" George inquired fifteen minutes later, delightedly sipping his second dosis of caffeine of the day.

"The whole thing stinks. A housekeeper madly in love with her boss, a loving wife, and a money-shark," Lee counted, deep in thoughts, flexing her fingers. None of them had a motif, and I daresay none of them had the brains to arrange for an abduction, although anyone can buy a hitman for a few grands. There's NO connection between these three and the Mullah in NYC and the President... except that they are among the most influential people in the country. And this," she made a brief, but effective pause, "_is_ a damn good motif. We only have to find out who was profiting from all this."

"Impressed," George slightly bowed his head at the young agent's clear reasoning. Mentally, he turned her words around, trying to prove the contrary of what had been said, trying to find errors in this simple consequence she'd drawn to no avail. Of course there was no other connection between these cases, upon revisiting the crime scenes he'd become absolutely convinced about it.

The slight blush on Lee's cheeks gave away the girl's excited mental state and George smiled reassuringly, resting his hand briefly on hers. "Easy now, Lee, you're doing just fine. Please don't get me wrong, but for someone relatively inexperienced as you are, I'm really impressed. You ask the right questions, are able to filter out the bullshit from the crap and, more importantly, manage to make people talk the way you need them to talk. And that, my dear, is a valuable asset."

"You're saying this only to make little miserable me feel better, right?"

"I'm really glad if it does make you feel better," George bottomed up his coffee cup, "but I said this because truth needed to be said. You will make a very good agent sometime very soon."

"Thank you, George," Lee blushed now furiously. To mask the turmoil that had been growing inside her by the minute, she opened her attaché case and pulled a small mirror out of it, examining her features in the cheap plastic thingy much longer and much more thoroughly than the situation would have required.

George watched her as she instantly turned from a Special Agent into a young and attractive woman, a half-smile hiding in the deep wrinkles around the corner of his mouth. She was so young, so fresh, a clean page ready to be written,and George silently cursed Fate for having thrown Lee into a water so deep with no possibilities to swim up to the surface before her air supply would end on her very first investigation. Her baptism of fire had come out a tough bit so far with no warranties whatsoever to live on beyond today and tell the tale. The situation was far more complex than he had ever suspected before; a few tiny bits and pieces, a few of Lee's arguments opening his eyes up for things he had previously considered unimportant, irrelevant, impossible.

"_You've been in things for too long, Whispering Cloud," _he mentally chastised himself. "_Retire while you can, find a squaw, and live the rest of your life as you've always wanted._" But now it wasn't the time, he knew that all too well.

"Want a refill?" he gently inquired from the young girl. She raised her thankful glance from the mirror. "No, thanks, George, my head is already fuzzy enough without all that caffeine." Nodding understandingly, the Lieutenant called the middle-aged Hispano waitress with a gesture of his hand.

"Any particular plans for today?"

"Dunno, George, I'm kinda at a loss. Close to checkmate, if you ask me; I know I have a couple steps left before having to give up, I just don't know which direction to take the first one."

"Come on," George held her chair in an old-fashioned way so that she could stand up from the somewhat uncomfortable table, "let me take you to the precinct. Last week a desk has been emptied so you can put down your bottom and go though ALL files at your ease."

Lee's face momentarily darkened. She knew all too well what it meant when a desk came free at a police precinct.

George understood her glance at once. "She was a damn good officer, if you ask me. She got a call on an armed robbery in a jeweller's store. By the time she got there, alone, the two bastards had already killed the owner and his wife and were packing up the snatch. Jen laid down both in two minutes but was shot in her back twice from a sawed-off gun by the driver of the escape car she hadn't seen."

A minute of pregnant silence fell and Lee suddenly felt she would have to throw up soon. "Thirty-nine. Turned thirty-nine two months ago. A woman to die for, with a heart the size of Texas. Her husband died in action two years back, had two kids aged seven and nine. Only the good die young, Lee."

The silence remained long after they'd driven off. The nauseating feeling that had been holding Lee in its grip didn't go away, on the contrary, it became stronger, and Lee lowered her window to take a few sips of the outside air, that, unfortunately, didn't bring solace. Moreover, a sort of panic, a disturbing feeling took hold of her and she was overwhelmed with a foreclosure of something bad bound to be happen any time soon. The car came to a halt at a red traffic light. Lee rhythmically clenched her hand into a small fist, trying to breathe deeply and evenly.

The light turned green, and George cautiously stepped on the gas. Hardly had the car covered a few yards when Lee's blood pressure suddenly rose out of the pan.

"_GEORGE! STOP!"_


	14. Chapter 14

The agents battle-taught reflexes engaged well before the last syllable of the girl's scream died off. He floored the break pedal and the car came to an abrupt halt with screeching tires. Thankfully, they were not driving too fast; it took a few yards only for the car to stop and the car behind them still had sufficient time to avoid the collision with the Nitro. A fracture of a second later, a battered van came from their right, through red light, chasing with high speed, followed by two police patrol cars with wailing sirens.

George's gaze followed them, his eyes filled with concern; when the wailing died off in the distance, he wiped his forehead on a paper tissue and looked at Lee with badly disguised interest. The girl's face took a greenish shade, her breathing uneven, tears glistering in her eyes.

"Are you OK?"

"I will be, George, just pull over, please."

The driver of the car behind them honked a few times, impatiently, and George slowly drove off, turning right and parking the car by the pavement.

"Do you want to drink something, Lee? I have a bottle of mineral water in the glove-box."

Following his glance, Lee found the bottle, untwisted the cap and emptied it in a few hasty gulps. "Thank you, George, 'mallright, at least I will be soon, I hope."

"What was all this about, partner? Was it your built-in sixth, seventh and eighth sense that warned you of that fucking car? I haven't seen or heard anything before you started to scream," George shook his head in disbelief.

"In the summer before my sophomore year," Lee started slowly, taking a deep breath, "I woke up one night in tears, hyperventilating. I went to my parents' bedroom and woke Mum and told her I couldn't sleep. I was freezing cold and shaking; she held me to herself the whole night as she used to when I was a little child."

She stopped for a moment as if hesitating to continue her tale. "The next morning, Dad's boss came by. See, he was a janitor working in a huge office complex. He was found dead in one of the offices at seven am; a heart attack, so he said." Lee started out of the car window, her eyes glassy, unseeing. She suddenly felt her hand disappear in George's warm, dry palm and turned slowly towards her partner.

"I'm sorry for your loss," the giant spoke softly and Lee acknowledged the friendly gesture with a barely perceptible nod. Then, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, but didn't pull her hand away.

"The days, weeks, months to follow, I was questioning myself whether or not it was Dad's death that I had foreseen to happen that night, but I always hushed away the thought saying that there was no such thing. I always thought that foreseeing things was impossible, that it was a coincidence, or maybe it was only my rather painful period that was bothering me. What happened today, I have no explanation for it, but it's one coincidence too much. I just _knew_ something bad was bound to happen."

Quickly making up his mind, George turned off the engine and got out of the car, opening the passenger door. The girl looked at him with an incredulous glance. "Where are we going?"

"Central Park is only three blocks away. It's the perfect place for a casual stroll when one doesn't want to _know _or_ think_."

Surrounded by a brief, blue flash, the two wizards materialized again in the hotel room in Washington DC. This time, Harry's landing was more successful, although the amount of travelling he had done today didn't pass him without leaving its marks on the young Auror's face. His face had obtained a slightly greenish shade and his trembling legs barely obeyed him, threatening to go on a strike any minute.

Bill himself wasn't in good shape either; even taking into account the fact that they had been travelling by Portkey, without using up their own magical energy, while the mysterious wizard they had been chasing was Apparating all this distance. And that was a disturbing fact, something neither wanted to acknowledge, yet neither could discard freely from the discussion.

There was a glass bonbonnière on the rabbi's desk, loaded with expensive, handmade Belgian bonbons. Bill took one and devoured it in no time, Harry doubted whether he'd tasted chocolate at all. He followed Bill's example, picking a heart made of white chocolate. Quite unexpectedly, the candy was filled with a sort of thick liquor, Harry reckoned raspberry or strawberry. That gave him an idea.

Having found a second heart, he bit off half of it, then, holding the second half between his fingers, smeared in the frozen girls' lips with the candy.

Bill questioningly raised his eyebrows. "Why'd you do that for?"

"Auror secret," Harry smiled, effortlessly hoisting Jackie up his shoulder. With his living cargo he walked up to an exquisite Chesterfield armchair and gently arranged the girl on the cold leather.

"Help me with the redhead," he nodded towards his brother-in law. When Christie's six foot one finally occupied the second Chesterfield, Harry let out the breath he was holding in. Pulling his wand, he placed it against the redhead's forehead, intoning "_Somnus"_, only to repeat the procedure shortly afterwards with the other girl.

"Had we brought them immediately by, they would have started asking questions like 'how the fuck was I able to sleep 90 minutes standing on my feet?'" he patiently explained to the older wizard. Now they are frozen and sleeping, so when we cancel the "A_rresto Momentum"_, they will be simply sleeping. When they finally wake up – after we make quite a few fingerprints that we can show them - they will feel the taste of chocolate on their lips that will, in due order, call in some subconscious associations about the chocolate they had eaten before falling asleep. Like I said, no questions asked. Classic decoy manoeuvre, if you ask me."

Bill only stood there, shaking his head in disbelief, trying to follow Harry's logic. Finally, he gave in, the questioning glance in his eyes slowly replaced by that of admiration. The simplicity of the solution shocked him, but more shocking was the ease Harry had come up with it. "You _really _would have made a perfect Slytherin. Although, with as much cunningness, you could have easily seduced the Slytherin Princess even being a Gryffindor. Just think of it, all the fun you could have had."

"Between the attempts to survive Voldemort's quite regular attempts to kill me, outfly a dragon or the odd Bludger, sorting out my head whether I was in love with Cho or Ginny or whether I should look at Hermione as a sister or a possible dating candidate?" Harry retorted cheekily, while making a fingerprint of his own forefinger on the small sticky foil the way he had learned while attending the Muggle Police Academy's preparatory course as part of his regular Auror study. Satisfied with the result, he pulled his wand again and made two dozen, slightly modified, copies of the fingerprint. Walking around the room, he dusted some spots on the door, the chairs, the desk and the windows with the white powder he'd used for the fingerprints. The whole job didn't take more than ten minutes, but when he finally finished, he felt considerably better.

Running his eyes around the room for one last time, he nodded satisfiedly. "Now, we are done here. Ready to face the music?"

Admiring the young wizard's effective movements, Bill seemed immensely proud and – truth be told – at the same time somewhat jealous. However, he as no one else understood the extremely high price this young wizard before him had paid for having become the youngest Chief Auror of all times: his childhood, constantly on the run from Voldemort, and finally, when the world was rid from the Dark Lord, his youth, his best years, devoted to purge the country of other, lesser criminals. When this was all over, Bill promised himself, they would have a serious conversation about this matter. His face, smiling, didn't give away the turmoil inside him. "Is that true what you just said about Hermione? Of your crush on Cho Chang I knew of course, the whole Wizarding community did, but Granger?"

Harry softly smiled, his gaze staring into nothingness. "What I'm going to tell you, Bill, nobody knows. Not even Hermione. Can I count on you to keep it like this?" The older wizard nodded seriously.

"You remember the Triwizard Tournament, right?"

"You pulling my leg, kiddo? That blasted Tournament gave me the most precious gift of my life. How could I forget that?" Bill's eyes threw a few playful sparks.

Harry liked Fleur. When he, finally, learned to see past her façade, he understood that – on contrary to popular belief – the beautiful shell contained a loving, caring heart the size of the Greater London area, a bright mind, and immense loyalty, all forming this somewhat impossible, complex being called Fleur Weasley-Delacour. While immune to her charms – not that Fleur had ever tried to use them on him – he was always blushing in her presence.

_On Fleur's 25th birthday the Weasleys threw a huge party with lots of dance, food and drinking. Slightly under the booze, Harry and his young wife sat at a small table, aside from the jolly crowd, trying to catch their breath after a quick dance, when a flowery breeze swept through the room and Fleur stepped up to their table._

"_May I steal your husband for a dance?" she inquired from Ginny friendly. The two had become good friends, almost sisters, after some not-so-subtle initial warfare, so Ginny only nodded, smiling and nudging her husband towards the young witch._ "_Come on, it's her birthday, Harry!"_

_Harry slowly stood and offered her arm to the beautiful young woman. Arms hooked together, they walked towards the makeshift dance podium, Harry praying that his trembling legs wouldn't give in until they get there. The music changed to a slow song – he could swear Ginny had arranged it only to embarrass him – and the two watched each other for a short moment, not really knowing what to do. The somewhat uncomfortable situation was solved by Fleur, who wove her hands around Harry's neck and there was nothing left for the young wizard other than put his hands on her sides. Fleur exaggeratedly rolled her eyes and, reaching for his hands, rested them on the place they should be, on the small of her back. Satisfied with the result, she smiled at her dance partner, a smile that could melt every male heart, nuzzled her head into the crook of Harry's neck and the two started swaying to the rhythm of the music._

_When the dance ended, Fleur quickly pecked his cheek, thanking for the dance, and lead him back to the table she'd stolen him from. The two young women – two partners in crime – giggled, sharing an all-knowing look, then Fleur waved them goodbye and went back to the dancing crowd, to her guests._ _From this day on, Harry was feeling more comfortable around the young Veela, although he never got rid of his discomfort he'd always been experiencing around her completely._

Smiling at his own uneasiness, Harry emerged from his memory. "I think, Bill, that you had hit the jackpot that year. Fleur is a wonderful person," he said, slightly blushing.

Bill emitted a short laugh, slapping him playfully on his back. "You may like my wife as much as you want to; I won't think any less of you two. I think we know each other that much that we can fully trust each other. So, what did you want to tell me about your Tournament year?"

"Oh yes. See, Ron and I..."

"I know all about that, continue," Bill took another bonbon from the table.

"So Hermione and I... were practically inseparable. She was obsessed with the idea of saving my sorry arse and we spent every free moment learning new hexes, crawling through old folios and the like. Before the first task, she sneaked into the Champions' tent and, saying nothing, just jumped on my neck, holding me tight as if we'd never see each other again. I was holding her in my hand, inhaling her sweet scent, and for a moment I thought I was in seventh heaven. Mind you, I'd always been nutters when it came down to girls; I didn't know whether it was love or not, but for quite a long time after that I was thinking that everything would have changed then, had I taken the first step and just boldly kissed her. Then I screwed it all up by not asking her to the Yule Ball... and the rest is history."

"I suspected as much, Harry," Bill mused, observing the young wizard. "Being an objective third-party observer, I can say only this: Ginny or Hermione, you'd always be my little bro."

"Thanks Bill," the young Auror pulled the other wizard into a firm, manly hug. "Now, let's wake up the girls and get the hell out of here." Pulling her wand, he pointed it at Jackie's temple. "_Finite Arresto Momentum!"_ Nothing changed, only the breathing of the young woman became somewhat deeper. Walking over to Christie, he repeated the process.

"We have to remove the '_Somnus'_ wandlessly, a few minutes between the two," he exchanged a quick glance with Bill. Nodding approvingly, the redhead started packing up the fingerprints and chemicals, while Harry got rid of his overall.

They woke Jackie first. The blonde blinked with her eyes a few times, at first not quite sure where she was, then it all clicked in. She slowly stood, carelessly stretching her arms and yawned a few times. "Whoa! I don't remember when I fell asleep like this during the day for the last time. Where's Chrissie?"

"In the other chair," Harry pointed at the sleeping figure of the redhead, Bill murmuring "_Finite Somnus_" behind their back. Jackie walked over to her partner and lovingly shook her awake.

"Agent Mulcahy, report to Base. Anybody home, sleepyhead?"

"Fuck off, J, I wanna sleep," Christie yawned, threatening to dislocate her jaws and closed her eyes again. Jackie turned to the two young men, licking off her lips, her eyes radiating disbelief. "Did you spike the bonbons with Nembutal and sedate us?"

"Yeah, did you wait until we were out and then have your way with us, both of you, and multiple times?" Christie countered, still curled up in the chair.

"Us? Are you kidding, sleepyheads?" Bill raised a few fingerprints so that the girl could see. _It would have been easy as Hell, and most probably quite enjoyable as well, but such a twisted idea could have come up only in a Slytherin mind_, he thought to himself.

"Too bad," Christie disapprovingly shook her gorgeous head. "I love men with a spark of imagination and originality. The chocolate was good, though."

"Chrissie!"

"Unlike you, ladies, we are _working_," Harry explained as if to a ten-years old. _"_You've eaten too many bonbons; chocolate can act like a sleeping pill when consumed in big quantities."

"Too bad, guys, you've missed your chance," Christie finally stood, stretching in a feline-like manner and almost purring in the process. Suddenly, her eyes grew the size of a saucer. "You managed to take fingerprints?" Only now did she recognize the small objects the redheaded agent was packing into his attachè-case.

"Yeah, and managed to run them, too," Harry raised a small black box so that the two girls could see. "They don't match any prints from the family, the PA, your colleagues, you two or us two, but they aren't in the Interpol database either. They're clean as virgin snow."

"What? You want to tell me we had been sleeping for two weeks while you got all this work done?" Jackie drew her aristocratic brows.

"Somewhere between ninety and one hundred minutes," Bill consulted his watch and almost fainted. Only now did he realize that he was still wearing his Wizarding watch, similar to the old grandfather's clock at the Burrow. The finger bearing Fleur's name pointed to "at work", while Victoire was most probably being spoilt rotten by Grandpa and Grandma. Suppressing a small smile, he quickly cast a wandless Illusion charm on the watch and rolled down his sleeve. "I think we're done here, ladies," he closed his case with a loud _click._ "Do you know a good place we can have lunch? I'm starving!"

_Typical Weasley stuff,_ Harry smiled, letting the other three exit the apartment first. He was ready to bet his year's salary, however, that the blonde agent somewhat exaggeratedly swaying her hips was addressed to him and no one else.


	15. Chapter 15

Two teams, independently working on the same case in two cities, ended up at the end of the day even more frustrated by their lack of progress. Although the D.C. Team managed to book some, but then, they already knew who they had to deal with. For them, the day turned out even more tiresome, as they visited Camp David as well, right after a quite enjoyable lunch, with first class food and some anecdotes – the wizarding ones made up on the spot.

Upon arriving at the President's summer residence, the two girls lost their interest in the case and left the two British agents to their investigations. Chrissie and Jackie enjoyed some coffee with the security guards in one of the richly furnished sitting rooms, and had no intentions whatsoever to be involved in the seemingly useless and most probably deadly boring process of fingerprint collection and identification. Of course, their dislike to work on this bright, sunny afternoon was multiplied by a slightly overdone Compulsion charm cast over the entire complex ensuring that Harry and Bill could do their job uninterrupted.

The result was the same; the John Doe they were looking for had covered the same legs of Apparition when kidnapping the six visitors of the residence that night: the Bahamas, the Azores, Paris, and Bergen. The two wizards excluded any possibility for a coincidence and decided that their invisible enemy had been using the same previously set-up and secured Apparition points for his US adventures. This way, repeating his travel for the second time became unnecessary and, being freed from the prospectives of a highly tiresome travel, they were all too happy about this fact.

Having returned to the hotel by cab – the two girls had some paperwork to file, much to their distaste - and agreed to meet them for dinner, the two wizards took a very much welcome and refreshing shower and a vial of Pepper-Up Potion, as the day turned out more tiring than they had previously expected. It wasn't a completely wasted day, though; at least they booked some results, found patterns in the kidnapper's behaviour, and they had good hopes that the wand pattern of their wizard was registered with one of the concerned Ministries. So, when they met down in the hotel bar and ordered their beers, life seemed all of a sudden bearable again.

They picked a somewhat secluded corner of the bar, warding it off with a few wandless, basic-level charms. Harry also added a simple Fidelius-like charm just in case, so that they could remain invisible to the public and, as such, undisturbed.

Just like in the morning, it was Christie who entered the lobby first, and immediately started looking for the two Britons. When Bill, who was facing the door, caught sight of her, he forgot to breathe for a split second, then sadly shook his head, pointing at the girl. "This could have been a hell of a night."

Turning around in his chair, Harry had to admit that Bill was right, damn right, to be more exact. Chrissie wore an emerald green, long-sleeved cocktail dress ending well above her knees and showing most of her well-formed, long legs. The cleavage of the dress was precisely enough not to display too much, but not to hide too much either and, seeing that the girl had just the right curves to be proud of, Harry and Bill already liked the "display" part of the story even without imagining what remained hidden.

Jackie was dressed more conservatively, but the sand-coloured suit she was wearing stood her none the less, perfectly fitting to her body and Harry took a disapproving look at his own black jeans, white T-short and black jacket he had chosen for the occasion. If he could believe what he saw and what Chrissie said about her earlier this morning, she was blessed with quite nice curves, and that made Harry just the tiniest bit sad. Shaking his head, he slowly rose from his chair and emptied the remainder of his beer. "Yes, Bill, ten years ago it certainly could have."

Turning towards the two _real _agents, he raised his hand and called out to them in a friendly voice. "Chrissie, Jackie, over here!"

The two agents were searching for the two Britons, in vain, as it seemed. They were already considering on giving up on them, until Chrissie remembered Bill's cell phone number he'd given to her. She was just about to get her phone and call him when she heard the familiar voice calling out their name and saw the waving figure of James friendly smiling at them. She shook her head in bedazzlement – she would have sworn that a second ago there was no one by that table, in fact, a second ago there was no table there at all - and made her way towards the two guys, Jackie tagging along behind her.

"Whoa guys, how'd you do that?" she inquired slightly out of breath, pecking both wizards on their cheek.

Harry's sensitive nose drew in the sweet scent of her perfume, while trying not to concentrate on her cleavage. S_he's definitely on the hunt, Bill, be careful with her if you don't want to sleep on the couch until the end of next year._

"Magic," he winked at Bill, while answering – quite eagerly – the girls' friendly gesture, then held away Jackie's chair so that the blonde agent could sit down. At first, she threw him a somewhat surprised glance – later she explained that they weren't used to be treated in such a fancy way by local guys – and adjusted her skirt while sitting down and nodding him her thanks. "What would you like to drink, girls?"

They dumped the two piss-drunk girls in Harry's hotel room – luckily they had twin beds in both rooms. After short hesitation, they decided that a crinkled dress was much easier to explain than the complete lack thereof, so they only removed the girls' shoes and covered them up. Quickly packing his scarce belongings, Harry moved over to Bill's room, immediately occupying the second bed.

"I don't know about you, Bill, but I'm knackered. A quick shower and I'm out of it."

"Be my guest, little bro," Bill pointed towards the bathroom with a wide gesture. "It's just good that we took the Sobering potion beforehand, otherwise we would look no better that these two."

_Each of them had a few glasses of wine accompanying their dinner, later the four youngsters moved over to the bar. Paired up in twos, they enjoyed some quality small talk, quite a few drinks more – in the girls' case it was, in fact, nearing a dozen each. Nevertheless, thanks to the discreetly performed Anti-compulsion charm, the two wizards didn't have to fear that they would be banished to the couch for the rest of their lives upon returning home. Weren't the two married, they would have been most probably more than eager to hit on these gorgeous girls, only neither of them was one to burn the candle at both ends. For them, marriage was a holy thing and their wives the most beautiful women on Earth._ _It was well past two in the morning when the two wizards decided that fun was over and helped the two profusely giggling girls onto their wobbling feet, leading them towards the elevator, as in their current state letting them drive home – or even calling a cab for them - would have been irresponsible._

Nodding profusely, Harry drew his features into a strange grimace. "I have never seen a girl drink so much. Given, their cocktails weren't the strongest ones; I dare not even think what they would look like after four-five Firewhiskeys, but still..."

"Practice, little bro, practice makes the master," Bill grinned widely. "You heard what Jackie said about the twelve tequilas two weeks ago. I would bet a hundred Galleons that that was not their first time, and surely not the last."

Rummaging in his bag, Harry produced a pair of boxers and a clean T-shirt. "They are gorgeous girls anyway. A missed chance, I say you. However, I must admit, it was a tad bit Slytherin of you to cast that charm on Chrissie."

The older wizard drew his shoulders, the picture of the beautiful redhead writhing in magic-induced extasy on her bed still in front of him. "Why so? All of us had fun tonight, she got what she wanted, and we stayed truthful to our wives. Hurry up with your shower, I need one as well before calling it a day."

The devastating migraine Chrissie woke up with was simply killing her. Her forehead was throbbing and her eyes were swollen so that she could barely open them. Moaning in frustration, she wanted to turn around on the bed, the sudden movement sending at her another nauseating wave of pain. She heard someone's distant, even breathing and she understood she wasn't alone.

"Is that you, J? Where are we?" she croaked in a hoarse voice, slowly easing herself into a sitting position on the unknown bed in the unknown room. The room was darkened, but from what she saw from the meubilair through her eyelids she deducted that this must have been a hotel room.

"J, are you awake?" she repeated her question, this time more impatiently. This time, she was rewarded with a huge yawn and her partner answered in an irritated voice. "What a stupid, dumbass question, Chrissie! You are making such a noise like a goddamned sawed-off .44 Remington and you expect me to sleep?"

The redhead admissively raised her hands in a peace-making gesture. "For Christ's sake, J, have mercy on me. I've got such a bad headache that I want to bang my head against this wall."

Jackie immediately forgot about her frustration. Rolling off her bed, she sat besides Chrissie and hugged the other girl to herself, the redhead laying her head on her partner's shoulder. "Do you think they had spiked our drinks with something nasty?" the gorgeous blonde whispered while she gently massaged Chrissie's neck.

"Nope, I don't think so," the redhead relaxed back her head, enjoying the momentary relief the cool hands of the other girl were providing. "At least, to me they seemed pretty decent, to the extent that I wouldn't have expected anything of that kind from them. We're still clothed," she ran her glance across her and Jackie's body and reached between her legs to check her green panties, "so I wouldn't imagine anything indecent to have happened last night."

"I warned you already, babe, don't fucking mix wine, beer and cocktails," Jackie disapprovingly shook her gorgeous head. "You lost this match with TKO in the eleventh round, so it seems."

The redhead was busily searching her mind for an appropriate, devastating answer when someone knocked at the door. In a split second, the cold steel of Jackie's Beretta flashed in the agent's well-manicured hand with an oily glister and a barely audible click was heard as the blonde readied the handgun.

"Who's that?" she commanded in a sharp tone.

"It's me, James, girls!" Visibly relaxing, Jackie reset the safety pin and hid the Beretta under her pillow, then, still barefooted, walked up to the door and peeked through the eye. Satisfied, she unlocked the door and stood aside, letting their guest in.

Broadly smiling, Harry walked through the door, balancing a huge tray loaded with food in his hands. Manoeuvring his way through discarded shoes, he gently placed the tray on the small desk. "Good morning, sleepyheads!" he greeted the girls in a jovial tone, pouring steaming coffee into two cups and handing them over to the two agents. "Sugar, milk?"

Thankfully nodding, Chrissie took her cup and closed her eyes, delightedly drawing in the tempting aroma of freshly ground and set coffee. Toasting with her cup, Jackie took a long sip of her drink. "Whoa! That's what I call service! None of my boyfriends had ever brought me coffee in bed the morning after."

"Alas, J, our Jim here ain't no boyfriend of yours yet and as it stands, he would never be. Pity, I say, he's a keeper," Chrissie winked at the young Auror. Emptying her cup, she turned over in the bed; her attractive features suddenly wrought into a painful grimace as a fresh wave of sharp pain swept over her.

Harry saw the small intermezzo and understandingly nodded. Reaching into his pocket, he fished out two small vials with an opaque white liquid in them. Handing over one to Jackie, he uncapped the second one and expectantly held it out to Chrissie. The redhead cast him a not-so-intelligent look, suspiciously eyeing the small vial. "What's that?"

"My best friend's invention. She's a..." He suddenly snapped shut, having almost blurted out 'Healer'. "...doctor specializing in alternative medicine," he corrected himself. "Good for headache, hangover, migraine, it will energize and vitalize you for the rest of the day. I always have a few vials on me; you know well police work is never 9-to-5 stuff and you never know when that extra bit of energy can come in handy. Don't ask me what's inside; most probably some weird Amazonian herbs soaked in beetle juice at full moon."

He was rewarded by the ringing laughter of the two girls, but he only smirked inwardly. _If you only knew that this was the very way the Vitalizing draught must be prepared. Hermione's really good at it, girls; in fact, she's outwardly scary when she does her magick with her cauldron. _He smiled warmly upon thinking of his best friend of fifteen years, but his face suddenly darkened upon his next thought. _Merlin help you to be safe so that you won't have to face all she had to face ever since she'd turned eleven. _

Emptying her vial, Chrissie made a disgusted face. "EWH! That's simply _gross_! I think your friend is certified, Jim, no offense meant." The momentary nausea, however, passed as it had appeared, and Chrissie's eyes lit up. "Wow! My headache's gone, as if it were cut away with a samurai sword! I take my words back, Jimmy boy." Swinging her feet off the bed, she walked up to Harry and planted a thick strawberry on his lips, leaving him slightly bedazzled. "I strongly demand you pass my sincere gratitudes to your bestie exactly the same way. If she is at least half as attractive as she is ingenious, you won't really have a problem with it."

For a moment Harry imagined the scene of 'passing the gratitudes' to Hermione 'exactly the same way' and he kind of liked the idea. Ginny knew of course of his and Hermione's special friendship, stronger than death. She knew darn well what the three had been going through together and never showed even the faintest trace of jealousy – not that Harry and Hermione had ever given her a reason to be jealous - but Ron would, of course, have misunderstood, even after so many years.

"H... Helen is indeed a beautiful girl, but her husband – my other best friend - wouldn't like the idea of someone snogging his wife senseless, even if this someone is me. So, I will just tell her what a genius she is, not that she hadn't heard this from me in the fifteen years we've known each other," he finally offered, friendly nodding to the hesitating Jackie, who was still suspiciously eyeing the small vial with the eerily glowing, oily, opaque fluid. Finally, her resolution won and she downed the contents of the vial, pinching her nostrils together with two fingers.

"Huhh," she shook her head not-so-intelligently as the vile-tasting fluid went down. "That IS gross! Yikes!" Reaching for her tray, she picked the glass of orange juice the ever-so-helpful Harry had already prepared and drank it in two long, hasty gulps, to wash away the foul taste of the potion. Delightedly licking her lips, she satisfiedly replaced the empty glass on the tray, and reached for her coffee cup. "Now I'm ready to start the day."

"So, Jimmy boy," Chrissie buttered a slice of bread, "do we have to feel embarrassed for last night? Did we dance, half naked, on the table in front of the hotel guests or did we perform some quality lap-dancing under the motto of strengthening the US-UK ties?" Harry almost choked at first. Then, taking last night's generous amount of drinking into consideration, as well as the ease the girl pronounced the totally shameless question, he became quite sure that either this had already happened or they were really close last night. He tried to imagine the scene and for a split second he felt enormously sorry for not having been a part of it.

"Unfortunately not, although I'm quite sure it would have been a most enjoyable sight and experience," he tried to answer the most diplomatic way possible, addressing his words to Chrissie.

"Tsk, tsk, Detective Porter," Jackie disapprovingly shook her gorgeous head. "_I _was your date last night, you should be giving _me_ compliments instead of this bone collection here."

Harry slightly flushed. "Chrissie doesn't seem a bone collection to me. Please don't get me wrong, but she's got just the perfect roundings at the perfect places. You're both equally gorgeous, girls, but if we don't drop this theme soon, I will sink through the floor in embarrassment."

"Too bad you married lot can't sample our perfect roundings," Jackie intoned in a mock husky voice, supporting her boobs with her palms through her sleeveless top. Harry groaned audibly, wishing he could really sink through the floor... or at least Apparate away, which, in the presence of the two Muggles, would have been a straightforward breach to the Statute of Secrecy. _Or not, if I'd modify their memories._

"_Apage Satana, no me tangere,_" he crossed himself. Not that he was the religious kind of person, on the contrary; he always thought that had God existed, He wouldn't have allowed all those horrors he had seen to happen, all those friends he had lost to die.

The two female agents giggled, giving each other a high-five. "Yeah, we'd make two damn sexy Lucifers, Chrissie."

"You lot are worse than Lucifer," Harry shook his head, rolling his eyes.

"We're actually good girls," Jackie explained, indicating Harry to sit down besides her on the bed. "We might seem too frivolous on occasions, but our mouths are bigger than our asses and we don't hop just like that into someone's bed. Just to make it clear, you know, before you and Billy boy would flee to the airport to get the hell out of here on the first available flight to Alaska. By the way, _where_ is Billy boy?"

"He left me the honours to welcome you to this beautiful morning, fair ladies," he replied in the cleanest Midlands he could muster.

The girls stopped their ears in sheer horror. "What was that?"

"This is how we speak in the part of England _I_ grew up," he explained, grinning madly. "To return to your question, Bill is right now sending a detailed report to the Scotland Yard while I, the lucky sod, am enjoying your company." In fact, in the adjacent room Bill had already sent his report, using a heavily modified Patronus-like charm that could transport small items through the subdimensional ether as well, spoken to Fleur via their communications mirror, and was now having his second tray of breakfast, watching basketball on TV.

Harry stood now from the bed, casting a strange look at the two temptresses. "I'm sorry to say, lovelies, that our common investigation is coming to an end, at least for the time being. We are supposed to fly over to NYC, meet your partner, Special Agent Sarrazano there and revisit those crime scenes with her."

The girls made a long face, silently cursing Bernie and Jackson for leaving them out of the fun. On the other hand, they had been quite enjoying themselves, working in the same team with the two handsome Englishmen, while Lee was somewhere out there, all alone, doing heck knows what.

Jackie stood as well, searching the room with her eyes, trying to localize her sand-coloured jacket. Finally she found it in the cupboard, crinkle-free, on a hanger. Putting it on, she cast a disapproving glance at herself in the mirror and tried to comb her gorgeous locks with her long, thin fingers.

"Going where?" Chrissie inquired, yawning profusely.

"The least I can do for these two loverboys here is to get them to the airport asap before they'd miss their flight," Jackie explained, adjusting her panties and slipping into her high-heels.

Harry emitted a short laugh. "Thanks, Jackie, but don't make a fuzz of it. We've already arranged for a cab; it will be here over fifteen minutes. The room has been paid for, so you can stay here the whole day, if you want to." Checking his watch, he went silent for a second. "I guess, J, this is it, for the time being. It's been my pleasure to meet you."

The blonde agent slipped her arms around his neck and softly pecked his lips. "Yeah, it could have been really pleasurable indeed. Thank you for last night, Jim, we really enjoyed ourselves," she teasingly winked at him, causing him to groan. Then, Harry walked over to Chrissie and extended his hand towards her. "Chrissie, you take good care of yourself." The redhead only rolled her eyes and firmly grabbed the young man, the short but proper snog leaving him completely breathless and slightly bedazzled.

"I guess you just broke loverboy," Jackie giggled, seeing his utter embarrassment.

"Sweetheart, you ain't seen nothing yet. This is where a _proper_ thankyou begins," Chrissie retorted. "You too take care, handsome."

Suddenly, Harry had a revelation. "You know what? I will send Bill here so that you could say goodbye to him as well. Only please, don't break him, I will need him back in one piece in ten minutes." _I couldn't deny him this small pleasure; I just hope he has enough self-control, otherwise we both will have another first-hand experience with Fleur's fireballs._

When the door closed behind the bespectacled young man, Jackie slowly removed her jacket and hung it back into the cupboard, then sat besides her partner with a loud sigh. "He was cute, though. I liked him."

"Yeah, partner, you're right. I say you, this one could have been a keeper. Damn Britons, why do they have to get married at such an early age?" Swinging her legs off the bed, she stood and walked up to the small desk. "C'mon, J, let's drown ourselves in some more coffee. It's too early for alcohol therapy. There's only one thing I don't understand, babe. If those loverboys didn't touch us with a finger last night, how come I remember having the most awesome, shrieking orgasm in my entire life?"


End file.
